


Black and Blue

by kianisabitch



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Bed-Wetting, Bullying, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Daddy Issues, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Depression, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Gender Dysphoria, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, I'm Bad At Tagging, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, LGBTQ Themes, Mental Health Issues, Non-Sexual Age Play, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oblivious Tony Stark, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter has serious daddy issues, Peter uses regression as a comfort skill, Precious Peter Parker, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags May Change, Thumb-sucking, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Parker, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, bed wetting, not sexual at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianisabitch/pseuds/kianisabitch
Summary: -THIS IS A VERY TRIGGERING PIECE. It contains graphic description of sexual, physical and emotional abuse of child, as well as very real descriptions of mental illness (including thoughts and ideation of suicide and self harm), additionally internal queerphobia and self hate (slurs are used).  Please read the tags and stay safe-He often dreaded what people would think if they found out how weak their hero was. If they found out he couldn’t even fight off a drunken, pathetic middle aged man. What would Mr. Stark say? He would probably be disgusted. He would probably want nothing to do with him. Peter wouldn’t want to do anything with himself either. Little tranny boys aren’t exactly anyone’s first choice and Peter was worse than that. He was basically a whore, except he wasn’t good enough to be payed- he wasn’t good enough to even eat. His body was so mutilated, so repulsive, so female that it would never be good enough. He would never be good enough.ORThe story of a very sad trans boy, struggling with very real mental illness and trying to navigate in a world that keeps on pushing him down and spitting in his face.





	1. Bruised Boy, Baggy Clothes

**Author's Note:**

> Before we start there are two things I want to say;
> 
> 1: THIS IS A VERY VERY VERY DARK FANFICTION. Read the tags carefully (as I add more chapters there will definitely be more tags) and please be very conscious of the fact that this has very graphic depictions child abuse and sexual assault in it. Please be very aware of this warning because it is a work that can be seen as very triggering.
> 
> 2: I find it very important that you know that this is written by somebody who actually struggles with mental illness and is transgender. I often find it aggravating when folks write things really wrong and romanticize trans identities and mental illness- so I want to make it very clear that this is born of my own struggles and the writing style is very raw due to this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter loses motivation, has the best fashion sense every and retells the inside of his locker.

When Peter got home from school that day, he opened the door cautiously. He couldn’t escape the tell tale creak of the door, or the subtle shift of dust in the air- but he desperately wanted his arrival to be as invisible as possible. He wanted to be a ghost quickly creeping into the main room and escaping to his bedroom without detection.

The apartment was still a mess, consequently the past few weeks had led to the three rooms losing the homey feel they had once possessed. The wall paper felt slightly more frayed, the floor was tracked with muddy footprints and the glass of broken beer bottles littered the countertops. Hazy afternoon light illuminated the tiny broken home and the entire room had a certain dismal quality to it. Like it was taunting him with the ghost of laughter that used to exist in the space, a symphony now riddled with the sounds of smashing glass and the feeling of hands in his hair. 

The day had been rough, and returning to this broken, run down space made it worse. It made his heart ache for hugs and the smell of badly baked, but still homemade chocolate chip cookies and watching bad rom-coms with his Aunt. It made him wish for everything he could not have, everything he had lost. Instead, he smelled cigarette smoke and the depressing state of his once home clung to his body like a second skin. Scaly and serpentine, but he could not shed it when he tired like a snake could. 

He flicked the lights on, but the harsh light only made the scene more depressing. So, he turned them off again and basked in the warmth of natural afternoon light shedding through the curtains. Smiling for the first time in forever and soaking in positive rays of sunshine. He could do this. It’s going to be alright. You are golden Peter- You are golden. -played like a mantra in his head and and the smile dancing across his lips was that of contentedness.

When he trudged over to his bedroom and pushed open the wooden door, the contentedness fell from his face. The small smile dropped from his lips and bile rose to his throat at the used condom and stained sheets. They were sitting there, so casually placed next to discarded legos and old textbooks- a reminder that this was his new reality. This was his new normal. He felt an urge to clean it up, pick up the offending object, resting in disgust next to his legos. His legosk, because he was a child. But, he ignored it- he was not a child that could clean his room when his mother yelled at him and make it all better. He didn’t have a mother- he didn’t even have an Aunt anymore. 

He dropped his backpack on the floor, wincing at the self caused loud sound and simply stared at his surroundings. He wanted to clean it, he needed to clean it. But, as repulsive as it was, he simply did not have the motivation to clean his sheets, throw out the condom- shower five times in a row, cry, cry, cry, CRY, fuckin’ cry until it was better.  
Loss of innocence was not something you can slap a bandaid on to make better. He couldn’t wash away lingering bruises on his wrists and the imprints of fingers on his thighs. Even when faded, they were branded into his skin- a reminder of how broken he truly was. And his room was a reminder that this was the new normal. It was the new normal and he better fucking get used to it. It was as normal as legos and textbooks were, because teenagers were hard to take care of and he had to earn his rent. Right?

The door of the apartment slammed shut and Peter jumped in fright, tripping on his backpack, he landed on the floor with a dull thud. His head landed between textbooks and legos and dried cum stains and the irony of the pain was beautiful. It was poetic and painted loss of innocence in the terms of objects that never belonged together. 

Tears threatened to come out of his eyes. But, he couldn’t cry. Couldn’t let him know that he was here. He wanted to cry so fucking bad, but self preservation saved him from a fate he was terrified of. So instead, he hastily made his way to the closet tucked into the corner of the room. Glancing back to his closed door, making sure the ghost in the walls couldn’t see him, he quickly opened the closet door and practically flung himself inside. His shaking hands fumbled with the the rack of clothing and pushed aside a few too small button down shirts and a dress or two he refused to throw out (nostalgia still beat dysphoria somedays). With the clothing out of the way, he curled into a ball in his tiny safe haven. It wasn’t much, but to him the two pillows, old blanket and tiny enclosed space were all he needed to feel safe. All he needed was here and he knew that it wasn’t much, but he had his own safety in his hands and this tiny place in his closet made him feel safe. In his closet, he was incharge of his own fate. He could hide from peering eyes and breathe slower. 

As he heard the fridge open, glass clinking and the grunt of the man he lived with, he stayed curled up in his tiny safe space. He didn’t dare move. He restricted the rise and fall of his chest. He clamped his hand over his mouth. He stayed silent and complicanet. Hoping that he would never be heard- never be found. He stayed that way for hours, even when he heard the sounds of bad crimes shows shift through the walls, even when he heard the TV flicker off, even when he heard the door next to his open and close and the loud snores. He stayed silent until, he eventually drifted to sleep. Hand still clamped over his mouth and head leaning up against the wall, he finally let himself drift into the land of dreams.  
\---  
He woke up with a start. A door creaking and the sound of heavy breathing. He curled further into the wall, pressing his entire body to the confines that similes only radiation safety and danger. 

“Listen up, you aint foolin’ no one. I know you in there” his voice bellows, he sounds close. Peter curled impossibly closer to the wall, slamming his hand back over his mouth.

“I know you're fucking in there slut, get the fuck out here before I beat your ass black and blue.” His voice is harsh and when he realizes it isn’t working, it goes syrupy and sickly sweet, “Daddy just wants to play with you doll, don’t worry” as the sentence progresses, his voice growls and his hand slams into the wall. Peter cowers more and more, and starts counting.  
1  
2  
3  
4  
5  
6  
7  
8  
9  
10  
Happy thoughts, happy place.  
1  
2  
3  
4  
5  
6  
7  
8  
9  
10  
He wants to ground himself. He needs to ground himself.  
“Come out you fucking whore. I wanna feel ya tight pussy, I wanna hear your moan my name sweetheart.”  
1  
2  
3  
4  
5  
“I know you want it you little shit… I know you want it princess”  
1  
2  
3  
4  
5  
6  
7  
“Show me that sweet ass you little transvestite. Show daddy your sweet little titties, daddy wants it”  
1  
2  
3  
4  
“If you don't come out, I’m gonna break your fucking door down. I swear I will ya whore”  
His voice is so loud, so terrifying that Peter can’t help reacting. A tiny squeak escapes him, he is startled and his hand slapped against his mouth can’t muffle it. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. He is not safe. Not Safe. Not safe. Not sa- The door is ripped open and the clothes hiding him from view are roughly pushed to the side. The air is so thick with alcohol he can almost taste it on his tongue and in every pore on his body. 

His legs are being pulled. He tries to hold onto anything, but he is failing and his body is violently being torn from his safety. The rug scrapes his legs as he is bodily torn from the closet and dragged across the floor. It burns, and the sweet sweet pain grounds him. He is nauseous with the knowledge that the pain feels good, but it keeps his mind from drifting away- that’s all he wants it to do and he wants the pain to stop. Because, the only thing keeping him here- in this life, in this world- is the pain. The zipper catching on the sensitive skin of his crotch as his pants are pushed down, the hand grasping his hair too firmly, the fingers pushing his thighs too wide. He wants to vomit when those same finger push where they should never be. He wants to vomit and scream and cry and yell until his throat is raw and bloody, but he can’t. He can’t because the pain is a drug intoxicating him and he is sure that he is a freak that deserves it. If a boy is freaky enough to have a vagina then he deserves to have this happen. If his body is so repulsive, he deserves to be violated. He deserves finger shaped bruises and bags under eyes and flinching at others touch. He deserves it.

\---  
The next morning, he wakes up face down on his floor. A lego is smushed into the side of his face and a used condom is inches from his hand. He crinkles his nose and rolls onto his back. Bones popping, muscles clenching, he groans and nestles his head into his hand. Five more minutes, he wants five more minutes to just float in the weird in between space of sleep and being awake. The sun coming through the window is comfortable and he just wants to lie on the floor and feel the warmth hit the exposed skin of his back (he wishes he could feel it without flinching at the feeling of warm air hitting his ass). He wants to feel the heaviness of his body, the points of contact with the floor and be aware of his existence in the universe and the space he psychically takes up in the world. He is often existential after nights like the pervious, and he has to remind himself that the world is going to go on. The heaviness of his body touching the floor will not last forever and he might as well get it over with and get up. Face the day head on. Brush his teeth. Take a shower. Take 5 showers. Feel clean. Feel clean. Feel clean. Feel Clean. Feel clean. He needs to feel clean.

The boy finally gets up, motivated by the shower, but ironically losing interest as soon as he sees his reflection. Sunken eyes stare back at him and he does not recognize himself. Regonzie the blues and purples painting his pale face and the features that look so disinterested, so sharp and hallow. Refusing to look at his reflection any longer, he thumbs through his Aunt’s makeup bag. Finally finding it, he twirls the container in his hand, greasy pads of fingers smudging powder that had drifted to the front of the compact. The powder was a tan color, several shades darker than the boy holding it and it smelled like one of those fancy cosmetic stores. In fact, it was from one of those stores- a gift for his Aunt on Mother's Day. The only Mothers Day gift he had ever given her, ironically gifted several weeks before she had passed away. He hated himself for that. For the fact that he had only pulled his act together weeks before her untimily death. But standing here and holding the compact, he felt drawn to the single memory he had of her with it.  
 _Aunt May’s skin had glistened as she danced to a smooth jazz track, leaning over to kiss the man standing beside her. His hair was shaved close to the head, tall, neatly buttoned shirt- pressed to perfection. The image of an ideal boyfriend, taking his girlfriend to fancy restaurants and giving her a bouquet of lilies- Aunt May had hated roses- paired with a kiss on the check. If you looked closer, you could see through the facade. His pants were too long and bunched awkwardly at the ankles, his shirt was stained with old coffee, smile more like a lopsided devil's grin. But she wasn’t looking. I wasn’t looking. And these tantalizing faults slipped through the cracks. Mason was the image of perfection.  
That night he helped her get ready, wearing a golden dress that cascaded like waves off her figure and black heels she had loved to dance in. They were going to a fancy dinner and then a ‘night on the town’. As she had left, Aunt May kissed Peter on the cheek and for the first time since his Uncle’s death, she looked happy with a man. Everything seemed to be looking up. Everything seemed to be perfect. _   
Slowly, Peter dipped his fingers into the compact. He grimaced at the way the powder looked comically out of place smudged on his pale, almost ghost like, complexion and even though the boy had come out years ago, makeup still made his skin crawl. Mason made his skin crawl. Anxiety made his skin crawl, because anxiety took hold of him screaming that the powder was a symbol of the girl he never was. He felt hot breath on his neck. He was a freak and he knew it. A little girl that was lost and he was terrified. Rough hands grabbed his breasts. He felt like he had no one left and was terrified of losing the only person he might have. _“Here, put this one”- one of Aunt May’s old dresses was thrown his way. He tried to scream and thrash out, but Mason held him down whispering in his ears that princesses needed dresses and that with his Aunt gone, he was now Mason’s little princess_ He was was a freak and Peter hated it. He hated it because Mr. Stark wouldn’t want a freak. The avengers wouldn’t want a freak.

He knew his Aunt had brushes for this- but he didn’t want to ruin them with his freakishness. So, he dragged his fingers in the powder and quickly pressed them to his under eyes. He winced at the pressure, but continued to smear the powder into place. Slowly covering up the blues and purples of a black eye he knew he deserved. Applying the makeup was a painful process, but the boy gritted his teeth and did it nonetheless. Not only did he need to look normal, but the pain was also a refreshing contrast to the numbness of his life. 

When he was finally pleased with the result, he grabbed some baby wipes from the same drawer. He wanted a shower. He wanted 5 showers. He wanted to feel clean. Feel clean. Feel clean. Feel fucking clean. But, depression, lack of motivation and the perfectly covered black eye meant baby wipes would have to do for today. He quickly swiped the wipes over the expanse of his exposed skin and then turned to go back into his room. Small victories were important and Peter reminded himself that smelling at least somewhat decent was definitely a small victory.

He had school in a few hours and he knew clothing could only hide so much, and even if it could physically cover everything- Peter would still look and feel broken. He was wearing his favorite pink Hello Kitty pants and was bundled in Mr. Starks old AC/DC sweater, that he was given after getting soaked on patrol during a storm a few months ago. It was considerably too big, only the tips of his fingers could be seen and if he added a belt it could be a very unfashionable dress. It was perfect for hiding in and large clothes seemed to make him feel more invisible then he already was. He loved feeling invisible and something about sweater paws and drowning in fabric, made him feel like a ghost. 

Feeling lucky that the sweater covered most of his bruises, he only had to worry about his black eye. Lucky for him, it would heal in a few days (maybe a week)- but for now the makeup would have to do.

Once again he stared at himself in the mirror. The combination of too tan makeup, Hello Kitty pants and large sweater made him look like a clown and he considered changing. However, he passed as male, he was comfortable and he felt safe all wrapped up warm and cozy in garments gifted from his mentor. They smelled like Mr. Stark and the scent of aftershave and grease from his workshop was calming. So, against his better judgement he grabbed his backpack from the floor and slowly opened the door to his room. He heard the low chuckles of the news anchors on the TV, paired with snores and he knew that he was in the safe. Free from conflict for another few hours- well at least until school. Because, school brought Flash Fucking Thompson and there would always be conflict when it came to Flash. It was like being a freak at home wasn’t enough, he also was gifted with being the school’s freakshow and having a target tattooed on his back.

Exiting the room turned out to be harder than he had originally thought and the door felt miles away- surrounded by a sea of landmines ready to go off. Broken bottles threatened to break under even the most careful steps and grabbing a banana on the way was definitely not worth the creaking floorboard in front of the counter. However, he desperately wanted his black eye to heal quickly and no food in his system, meant his healing factor refused to work. So, he risked it and grabbed the banana.

Amazingly enough, he made it to the door in one piece and the warm Spring air was a welcome reprieve from the stuffiness and thick cloud of alcohol in the apartment. Despite the warmth, he pulled the thick sweater over his head and felt content in drowning in it. Baggy clothing was always a friend of little bruised boys with breasts and low self esteem. If he made it through today without being misgendered, he would buy himself a rootbeer float from the diner a few blocks down and sit at the counter talking to the regulars he never sees anymore. Basking in the ice cream and sunshine, he could finally forgot that money wasn’t a constant thing in his life anymore. Not after Aunt May died - taking the single paycheck with her- and certainly not after her darling boyfriend spends all the money left on drugs and alcohol. Not after Mason refused to spend a cent on Peter if he wasn’t ‘earning his way’. No. Money was not a thing anymore. He is sure that if he asked Mr. Stark he would help them out, but he would never actually do that. Never act like he just liked the man for his money. No. He would rather have respect than lunch money and Peter didn’t need to eat anyways. He didn’t deserve to eat. Didn’t deserve it. Did NOT deserve it. no. No.NOONOnoNO- the train pulled into the station and the doors zoomed open. The few people getting off at the deserted queens station excited and then he quickly shuffled on. Snagging a seat, he sat down, popped his headphones in and grabbed his sketchbook and started drawing. 

Peter loved drawing and there was something enthralling about drawing strangers on the subway. Something romantic about drawing strangers with problems he was sure were worse than his own- because everyone had problems worse than his own. He was truly a New Yorker in the sense that the subway seemed to soothe him. On the subway, he was just another face in the crowd. Another kid on a perpetual commute to nowhere and everywhere at once.

When the train finally pulled into his station, he braced himself. They say high school is supposed to be hell. But, what Peter experienced was next level harassment. Sure, he had Ned. And Ned was fucking amazing, but he was alone so much and was very well acquainted with the inside of a locker. For the record, it was better when it was his own locker. He got to stare at his tiny rainbow flag pinned on the inside, his picture screenshotted from a video of him with Captain America’s shield (CAPTAIN AMERICA'S SHIELD PEOPLE) and the picture of him and Ned holding a ribbon for third place at a robotics competition. Last time he was stuck there, he hadn’t even realized it had been several hours, until Happy had texted him where he was and he had to call Ned 7 times, begging him to come let him out. The poor boy had been in therapy and finally, sheepishly had to explain to both his therapist and mother why he had to return to school half way through his session. They were not impressed, but Ned is an amazing best friend to say the least. When it was not his locker… well let’s just say that definitely took a degree of creative problem solving to escape.

When he entered the school, he kept his head down. Headphones in, he stared at his feet as they trudged to his locker. His first class was art today and because this is a science school, the art courses are very underfunded and yet still amazing and a place for all the outcasts like him to hang out. Usually, he would skip his locker but he needed his paintbrushes and art was always worth the risk. Well at least in Peter’s opinion.

Science was his best subject, something he was good at and interested in. But, art was his passion. Art was the love of his life and he bleed paint water and cried in hues of oil pastels. His mind worked in photography and to him, science was just another creative problem to solve. It was another reason to think outside of the box and push his limits. Everyone expected him to go into science when he was older, but if not patrolling for crime on the streets of Queens, art was where his heart was. If he had money for college, it would definitely be at an art school. He could settle down in a cute town, find an amazing boyfriend and live off of ramen while he sat on rooftops and painted the sunsets. That’s all he really wanted in life. Paint sunsets, and well save people. He always wanted to save people and not in that romantic, you need a savior, romanticise mental illness type of way- but in a ‘I need to make the world a better place’ type of way’. He thinks that might be why he looks up to Mr. Stark so much. People might not see it, but Tony Stark was a very generous man with a hero complex. He would give and give and give and give and give, until he had nothing more and then he would keep on giving. He would probably give the blood from his body and the shirt off his back if it could save a life. 

If Peter wasn’t so damn broken, he would want to be like Mr. Stark. But, he was too fucked up for that and no one would want that from him anyways. So, he would stick with his painting and masked vigilantism and save the world in a small way. He would save it by stopping small, petty crime and fighting prejudice and his own internal pain with artwork.

He often dreaded what people would think if they found out how weak their hero was. If they found out he couldn’t even fight off a drunken, pathetic middle aged man. What would Mr. Stark say? He would probably be disgusted. He would probably want nothing to do with him. Peter wouldn’t want to do anything with himself either. Little tranny boys aren’t exactly anyone’s first choice and Peter was worse than that. He was basically a whore, except he wasn’t good enough to be payed- he wasn’t good enough to even eat. His body was so mutilated, so repulsive, so female that it would never be good enough. He would never be good enough.

“Nice Pants, Penis” Flash called from the other side of the hallway. Peter clenched his fists and ground his teeth. It’s ok. These pants make you feel safe. They’re cute. Look they have Hello Kitty on them. It’s ok. Mr. Stark gave them to you. It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.

“Hey freak, I’m talking to you.” His voice was closer now, but Peter’s head was still down and he pretending not to hear it. If he didn’t respond, maybe Flash would leave him alone for once.

“Anabella, I. Am. Talking. To. You.” Peter’s heart stopped and head snapped up. He stared at Flash in shock, he was hurt and confused. 

He could feel the pressure of tears forming behind his eyes, and before he let them fall he turned and ran. He ran away from the laughter, ran away from the eyes on him, ran away from the pain and ran away from the fear. He ran and ran and ran. All the way down the hallway and up the stairs and towards the emergency exit- he ran all the way out of the school, not caring about the consequences he was sure to soon face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, congratulation you get to be one of the lucky ones to help me decide the direction of this story! I have a few ideas for it and if any of you lovely people could take even a second to give feedback or ideas, I would love you forever.
> 
> SOOOOOOOO
> 
> My thoughts are a few things it could either...
> 
> 1: Be a purely platonic story of recovery and angst between Tony and Peter  
> 2: It could be a love story- my Peter will forever be gay and I was actually thinking of pairing him with a slightly aged down version of Wade, because I love the combination and Peter deserves love- but will probably only find it with someone as messed up as him  
> 3: I was thinking of having Peter using the coping mechanism of age regression (which lots of childhood sexual assault victims use) and playing with that and how it affects him  
> 4: If I did three I'm not sure wether it would be with Wade or with Tony  
> 5: Other avenges- yes, no, you don't know????? Should they exist in this story????
> 
> Any advice is appreciated, and I definitely need it. Thanks!!!


	2. Bloody Water, Broken Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has a long day at school, learns some new coping skills and fails at self care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again this is an extremely disturbing and triggering work. Please take this warning seriously.

New York City schools always felt like prisons. It was unclear whether the bars on the windows and multiple security officers were there to keep danger out or rather the students inside. Rotting away, locked in lockers and swimming in badly taken notes scrawled in illegible handwriting. The air inside his school always felt thick and toxic, like fumes filling his nose and sinking into his lungs. The school made him feel trapped, like an animal backed into a corner, helpless and in need. In need of a hug, or maybe a homemade chocolate chip cookie or clean air or just someone-anyone- to listen to him.

 

When he burst through the doors, he felt liberated. He sucked in the new air and basked in the early morning rays of sun- the light poetically dancing on window panes and shiny cars in the parking lot three stories down. He wasn’t that far up, but to Peter the cars looked like ants. The students perpetually running into school late, clutching cups of iced coffee and books, were rats in a mindless rat race and he wanted nothing more then to take the three measly steps forward and hit the edge of the roof he was on, dangle his body over the edge and thrive off the danger present in the situation. He was passively suicidal, not actively looking for it- but still feeling content at the thought of it happening.

 

He knew that he wasn’t supposed to be up here. If a teacher found him, Peter would surely get detention. Nothing at this moment in time sounded less appealing than listening to Captain America lecture him, but he needed to escape. He needed to escape. Escape. Escape. Escape. He needed to breathe clean air and get away from Flash looming over him away from the feeling of Mason’s hands in his hair.

 

Maybe, he could stay up here all day and they would never notice. He wanted to stay until the tears finally started slowly dripping down his face, finally started drying and his hands finally stopped shaking. He wanted to hide until his breathing evened out again. Until his lungs would rise and fall once again with ease. He wanted to stay until suicide didn’t sound so appealing. 

 

However, breathes and sobs racked his body like waves during high tide and his hands were shaking like leaves blowing in an early Autumn gust. Peter was floating, his brain felt like it was lost. His voice wouldn’t come, regardless of the fact that he only wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and throw his words and body off of the ledge, hitting the tiny ant cars and mindless teenagers.

 

Peter could not breathe.

He felt hands in his hair.

He could not breathe.

He felt fingers bruising hips.

He could not breathe.

He felt teeth and cigarette smoke on his ass.

He could not breathe.

He felt the ache of an empty stomach. 

He could not breath.

Slowly, almost unconsciously- like it was moving on his own, Peter brought his hand up to his mouth. Pain, he wanted pain. He needed pain. He needed to feel grounded and this was the only solution is hazy mind could think of.

 

He bit into the soft flesh of his hand, searching for the pain necessary in grounding himself to this world. He needed this, he really fucking needed this. But, as he gnawed at his own skin, he was suddenly overcome with something else. Safety? Regret? Guilt? Hope?- He wasn’t sure, but he could smell coffee and grease and expensive aftershave. He nuzzled his nose into the thick fabric of his sweater. This sweater was safe, it was so safe. Like a cup of hot chocolate made after a lab binge or a job well down or rare pat on the back or tussle of his hair.

 

He pulled the fabric under his nose, inhaling the scent like a drug and the fingers once being chewed sat still in his mouth. Experimentally, he sucked them in. He was disgusted at first, thinking of germy subway poles and the taste of paint present on the the fingers heavy in his mouth. But he continued sucking, creating a rhythm. Lulling and sucking himself into a self soothing sense of safety.

 

His eyes were dropping and Peter was hit by the reality of how truly tired he was. His black eye throbbed and his ribs ached- a result of panic attacks and binding- and Peter was pretty sure he felt blood trickling at the corners of his vagina and it was sticking his boxers uncomfortably to the skin.

 

But, he ignored the pain and focused on the scent of Mr. Stark, the feeling of fingers in his mouth and he let his body sink to the ground. He was laying on his side, his head pressed into tiny stones and gravel on the roof. In the back of his mind- somewhere far, far away- he could process that the sensation hurt. But, he focused on the coffee and aftershave, nuzzling his face into the soft fabric, curling up and getting as much of his body into the thick sweatshirt that he could manage. He was going to miss his art class but at this point his body felt heavy and useless and he could only focus on the methodical suck, suck, suck and the feeling of drifting into unconsciousness.

\---

Ned found him lying there at the beginning of next period. He mumbled something about the glories of the newly updated “Find My Stark-Phone” as he slowly shook his friend awake. Peter groaned and turned over- the gravel crunching and drool from the hand wedged in his mouth pooling on the hem of the sweatshirt. It was clear that Peter was still half asleep as Ned went to shake him further.

 

“Come on, Peter. please wake up. I heard you missed art and I know that's your favorite class….Peter please come on. Get up, I’m worried about you. I am really worried about you” Peter’s eyes cracked open at the last proclamation and they were big and glassy. Round and almost childhood like, sunlight reflected in his dilated pupils and the boy looked lost. 

 

He opened his mouth to say something, but the boy didn’t say anything and instead shoved the recently removed hand back into his mouth and to his best friends surprise, started sobbing. To Ned’s horror, a creamy tan substance dripped down his face with the tears and left streaks of blues and purples in its wake. To Peter it would be artistic, something the boy would want to paint, but to Ned it was horrifying and his mind raced trying to process the information.

 

“Peter...what’s wron-” Ned started and reached out to hug his friend, but as soon as the hand touched the boys shoulder it was like he had been branded by a hot metal rod. Peter let out an ear splitting scream, his body contorted at an inhumane angle and to both boy’s horror- a wet patch spread over Peter’s crotch

.

“Oh. Oh. Oh….Oh” Ned kept on repeating it and Peter flushed red in embarrassment. His face was hot and he wanted to melt into Mr. Starks sweater and disappear forever. He wanted to cry his eyes out. He wanted to fling his body off the roof and became a smudge on the sidewalk below. He wanted to die. He wanted to die. HE WANTED TO DIE. But, sadly that wasn’t an option and right now he was wet and uncomfortable, he smelled like urine and his brain was floating.

 

Ned was still gawking at him, he seemed as lost as Peter and the two of them sat staring at each other for what felt like an eternity. They were silent, but felt connected by a golden thread of unsureness.  

 

But, suddenly Ned’s entire demeanor switched. He reached forward to touch his friend, but stopped short and let out an airy, “Can I touch you Petey…?” 

 

Peter’s voice had decided to stop working and even if it had worked, Peter would not know what to say. He had no words for the mortification he felt, so instead he let out a tiny whimper and nodded his head ‘yes’.

 

Ned reached out to hug the boy and he let himself be hugged, reminding himself that this was Ned. His best fucking friend Ned, who would never do anything bad to him. Ned was a safe person and Peter was safe in his presence.

 

His friend kept on whispering sweet nothings in his ear, ‘it’s ok, you are ok, I promise’ and ‘you know I love you?’ and ‘you’re safe Petey’- over and over again while he rubbed Peter’s back in comforting circles. Peter wanted to flinch away from the touch, but this was Ned and he was safe with him.

 

Part of his brain processed that his best friend was now covered in his snot, tears and urine and Peter started to weep again. But, Ned shushed him and countied his actions and reminding Peter over and over again that he wasn’t mad. He was not mad. He promised that he was not mad. 

 

\---

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, but in reality was roughly fifteen minutes. Eventually Ned’s phone buzzed and both boys were pulled back into reality. Gently coaxing Peter to stand up and reminding him that they were late for next course, Ned pulled him back towards the door. Peter really didn’t care that they were late, but he knew his friend would be grounded if he ditched class. Peter refused to get ned in trouble, so he put on a brave smile and decided to brave school once again.   
  


His voice was scratchy from the crying when he croaked out a small “I’m fine Ned...”

 

Ned looked hesitant, but eventually slowly nodded his head and added “Alright, I’m gonna leave so my mom doesn’t kill me for ditching, but promise to text me if you need absolutely anything.” He seems unsure as he ushers them through the door that leads into the school. He is glad that it is not the beginning of the next class when the hallways are crowded, because when he pushes through the door the air conditioning reminds him of the wetness of his pants. He wants to start crying again, but he can’t afford that liberty. So, he holds his head high as his skin itches and dampness clings to his skin. He hates himself for it happening, he has no idea why the fuck it happened. But, it did happen and now he has to problem solve. And problem solving looked like the best option currently (second best to giving up and/or just killing himself on the spot).

 

He pushes open the door to the bathroom- girls, because he doesn't want to get beat up for braving the boys room right now- and contemplates his two options. He doesn’t have any gym clothes to change into- he would rather fail then show of his tits and finger shaped bruises in the locker room. So, he could realistically either stand under the automatic hand dryer until his pants smelled like stale urine instead of wet urine, or he could call someone. The scent of stale urine sounds absolutely horrible, so he grabs his phone from the front pocket of his backpack. He wishes Aunt May was still alive because she would’ve had the perfect answer. She would have made them hot chocolate, popped in a Star Wars movie and rubbed his back for him while listening to how crappy his day was. She would then remind him how much he was loved and gift him with a hug better than no other. He longed for the feeling of a warm a hug, but Aunt May was gone now and she couldn’t make it better anymore.

 

 

His fingers hovered over the screen. With Ned in class, he only had two options. Mason………or he could call Happy and beg to talk to Mr. Stark. He knew hearing from Mr, Stark would be the best possible answer, even just for a second, but he didn’t have his personal number and would have to go through Happy to get to him. The thought of confessing to Happy that he had wet his pants like a freaky baby all because Ned had touched his shoulder was terrifying. But, he wanted Mr. Stark. He wanted Mr. Stark. He wanted his da- he w a n t e d MR. STARK. Peter stomped his foot in annoyance and chewed on his bottom lip so hard he thought it would start to bleed. He was angry and he wanted a hug and hot chocolate and warm cookies and a bubble bath and to not be a fucking freak anymore, but he was not going to get that. He knew he was never getting that ever again.

 

Skipping both of the numbers he groped in his backpack for his web shooters. Shoving them on his wrists, he ran back out of the bathroom, through the door and jumped off the roof. It was compulsive as all hell, but he wanted to be gone from school. And swinging his way back home was both faster and more freeing than public transit. 

 

As he swung his way towards his apartment, the air rushed in his ears and he didn’t give a fuck if people saw him. He did not care one bit. As he swung through the air without a single care in the world, Peter missed a single text on his phone-

Happy Hogan: Why are you not in school kid? Boss is seriously not happy.

 

\---

 

Peter sat soaking in water in the bathtub of his aunt's old ensuite bathroom. It was risky, but during the day Mason was usually out and Peter could soak in the lavender bath salts for hours. Peter was enjoying the relaxation, finally feeling the escape he was desperately craving earlier. However, the entire experience was not as relaxing as it should’ve been. Urine and lavender were not a particularly nice scent combination, his chest made him want to take a chain saw to it, he had discovered tiny raised bumps on the inside of his thighs. Peter was very much not pleased with his teenage diaper rash, and the discovery of it made him feel even more like a toddler getting a bath after wetting his pants. He hated how babyish he had felt recently and wanted desperately to escape it. 

 

The experience was also made even more unpleasant by the blood swirling in the water around him. Blood oozing sluggishly from his freaky vagina and blood from the tiny cuts next to the raised red bumps and finger shaped bruises. He was contemplating attempting to bleed out, but not only did Peter have a freaky vagina-he also had a freaky healing factor that was refusing to make that dream a reality.

 

Regardless of the all the negatives, he still tried to make the experience feel at least a little relaxing. He popped open the cap for a thing of green apple scented bubble bath, turned on his favorite playlist of alternative and classical music combined and closed his eyes. He soaked it all in. The sunshine from the window, the conflicting scents of lavender and green apple and the feeling of his body making contact with the slick tub. Peter felt grounded, overstimulated and anxious, but nonetheless grounded. His brain was floating and his hands for once weren’t shaking. He was taking care of himself. He was bathing and treating himself to something nice. The self care was intoxicating and he was doing so many good things all at once and it was overwhelming positivity. -He didn’t deserve this positivity-

 

Next to the bathtub, his phone was playing a steady melodic tune, and Peter toyed with the idea of sucking on his fingers once again. He wanted to feel even more grounded, relaxed and content- but he didn’t want to be a baby. He didn’t want to be a freak or weird or enjoy things meant for toddlers. When it came down to it though, the positives outweigh the negatives, and Peter rhythmically sucked his fingers into his mouth and closed his eyes dazedly. He felt so grounded, so good, so positive and affirmed. He felt like he could breathe and like his head wasn’t racing.

 

Caught in the Euphoria Peter missed the ding of a notification interrupt the soft melody of the song.

 

Happy: Tony says and I quote “get your ass back into school right now, or I’ll drag your superhero ass back there myself.” I suggest getting a move on

 

Happy rarely texted him back and NEVER texted him first, so it was easy for him to miss the warnings the man had sent him throughout the day. Peter was in his own space right now and he was unaware of his surroundings. He was unaware of the drip, drip, drip of the leaky faucet of the bathtub, the jingle of keys in the hallway, the soft popping of bubble bath as time went on, the ding of his phone warning that Mr. Stark would be at his house in 35 minutes to take him back to school, the creaking of the door to the bathroom opening, the smash of a beer bottle next to his head, the glass falling into the tub, the hand sliding the into the water, the hot breathe on his neck, the fingers in his vagina.

 

There are fingers in his vagina.

There are fingers in his vagina.

There are motehr fucing fingers in his vagina. 

 

He wants to escape but now they are pressing farther.

There are fingers on his clitoris. 

There are fingers pressing into his clitoris.

He lets out a moan behind the fingers in his mouth.

His toes curl in ecstasy.

His eyelashes flutter.

This feels good.

 

“You like that princess?” is grumbled in his ear.

 

THIS DOES NOT FEEL GOOD.

THIS IS NOT GOOD.

He does not like this. He swears he does not like this.

 

His body thrashes.

Glass cuts into his sides.

Hands hold him in place.

He is begging.

He does not want this.

He does not want this. 

WHY DID HIS BODY PRETEND TO WANT THIS.

He does not want this.

 

 

His chin is grabbed roughly and he hears a whispered “Look at you, ya little slut- sucking your fingers getting ready for daddy’s cock in your little whore mouth.”    
  


Peter bites down on his fingers hard and blood fills his mouth, gurgling and dripping down his chin. He wants to take them out, get rid of the weight and the blood. But, he needs them to stay. He needs them to stay in his mouth, he can’t have his safety ripped away. His fingers in his mouth is the only thing grounding him to this world and he needs it. He needs it so fucking bad.

 

His mouth is aggressively forced open and his fingers are roughly pulled out, cock shoved in deep and hard. He gags, trying to pull away- but a hand is on the back of his neck forcing him to stay. His nose is forced into Mason’s pubic hair and the smell is disgusting. He is forced to stay there until tears, blood and drool run down his face. He is purple from lack of air by the time it is taken from his lips. He gulps down air, but it does not last long as the cock is forced back into his mouth. It is forced in and out and in and out and in and out of his mouth over and over and over and over again. He is choking, spit runs down his face and a hand caresses the substance into his skin. 

 

When he finally thinks it is over- when he finally thinks he might be safe- the penis is pulled from his mouth and Peter tries to swallow as much air as he possibly can. He is relieved it is over and he thinks Mason finally has mercy, finally is taking sympathy on the poor broken boy in front of him. 

 

But, when he looks up he is greeted by a hand slapped around flesh and cum spurting down onto his face, followed by a gob of spit and finally - to his horror- a stream of piss splashing and mixing with the other substance. “My perfect little whore” Mason purrs as he leans over and unstops the drain on the bottom of the bathtub. Water is pulled from the basin and he is left sitting in disintegrating bubble bath, the dredges of bath salts, broken glass and a mixture of bodily fluid belonging to both him and Mason. The boy is in shock as the man drags him by the legs out of the tub, flesh catching on broken glass, head hitting the side and he's being bodily pulled down the hall and towards his bedroom. His wet body slides deceptively easily on the ground and his breasts catch on splintery hardwood and discarded beer bottles. Peter wished they would just fall off in that moment, finally be sliced from his body for good- but his life is never that easy and he never gets what he wants.

 

The door to his bedroom is yanked open and he is body is dragged towards their destination like a limp blow up doll. The closet awaits menacingly and he is shoved in with the words “since you like hiding in there so fuckin’ much, you can fuckin’ stay there until I need me a wet hole to fuck again” The door is slammed shut and before he can force his body to move, he hears a heavy screech on his floor and his frantic shoves to get out are made futile. He is stuck, dried cum sticking to his face and Mason’s piss burning in his nose. He is stuck when seventeen minutes later, a shiny car pulls into the driveway. He is stuck when a man nearly breaks the door down demanding to see him. He is stuck as Mason explains that Peter is in school and he has no idea why he would think anyways. He is stuck as Mr. Stark turns around and leaves, grumbling about bad phone trackers and having to work on upgrading it later, he is stuck when Mason is screaming that he will never see the light of day again if he dares embarrass him in front of a celebrity again. He is stuck, curled in a naked ball, cowering and hiding in the corner of his closet, crying his eyes out, sucking his thumb and wishing for Mr. Stark to save him. He is stuck waiting for his da- Mr. Stark to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this officially just became more fucked up. Poor Peter deserves the world and instead he's getting this BS. I bet you can guess who makes an appearance in the next chapter though, so be prepared.
> 
> Also I am going to be 100% honest, kudos and comments in particular give me motivation to write. I respond to literally every comment so if you have a question, suggestion or just need to rant - I will always respond. I love hearing how I'm doing and feedback not only makes updates faster, it also makes the quality better and closer to what you want.


	3. Creative Cuts, Complex Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has time to reflect, is treated suspiciously nice and gets a surprise vistor.

 

When he woke up again, Peter wasn't sure how long it had been since he had fallen asleep. It could have been five hours or five minutes or five days and it would have all felt the same to the boy. His head was pounding, his heart was racing yet sluggish at the same time and his body was contorted in an alarming position. Head splayed in a crooked manner to the side, arms bent at severe and odd angles and legs twisted up to his body- toes curled up under his butt. 

 

He could hear what felt like every sound in the entire apartment complex. Twelve separate TV shows blaring and blending into a meaningless hum, a knife cutting vegetables on a cutting board, the flip of pages turning in a book and the rhythmic pulse of a million songs mashing together. Regardless of the sounds, Peter felt a strange sense of peace. He felt content- as if the entire earth had faded away from him and he was left sitting alone in a deserted field in the middle of nowhere. Living in New York his entire life made noise his safety blanket. The creak of doors, blares of car horns and rustle of leaves crunching under feet were peaceful. Being alone in the anonymity of the chaotic sounds made him feel at peace. Public transportation was one of his favorite things for that reason. He could blend into the anonymity of the crowds of people. Just another face in the crowd, Peter could pretend that he didn't have all these issues that plagued his life. He could pretend that he was just another cisgender boy going home to his partners to talk about his math test 4th period, and girls, and the unchaperoned party he was begging to go to. But, Peter wasn’t normal and couldn’t pretend to be. Peter was stuck. He was stuck in his life and stuck in his closet. The irony of that sentence was not lost on him. He had been out as transgender for three years now. Long enough for Aunt May to unconditionally love and support him, long enough for him to get shipped off to his new fancy science prep school on a scholarship and presenting as male, and long enough to be Spider-Man.

 

Spider-Man was truly the only time Peter got to be one hundred percent himself. It was the only time he felt that he wasn’t lying, like he was living authentically. Peter did not take that for granted. Every moment spent swinging around the city, was a moment of pure and utter freedom- a moment he loved and cherished. For once, he could exist as just himself and it was definitly a powerful sentiment. The only other time he felt that way was when he was painting. When he had a brush in his hand and the colors would mix together at his own will. The amazing thing about acrylic paint is the ability to correct things. If he didn't like it, no problem- he just painted right over it. Regardless there were no mistakes in art. Every mark made was beautiful and added something to the work.

 

Peter often felt like a mistake. His body and mind were at war with himself. His body made him feel physically sick and his mind was constantly screaming at him. He wanted to be better, stronger, faster, thinner, more masculine, more perfect. Some part of him knew that he did this all because he had never been in control of anything. His life had been pre determined for him, a side effect of being trans, bit by a radioactive spider, being orphaned twice, and being the most hated person in his entire school. He wasn’t afforded the liberty of deciding what happened and if starving himself or cutting himself or letting himself be abused help- he would let it happen. Peter just wanted to feel alive again. He wanted to find someplace he belonged, someplace he could exist freely. Peter thought he had finally found that in this tiny apartment, but then Aunt May had died and Mason had started being crueler and he now wanted nothing more than to escape this tiny apartment once and for all. He wanted a family, a home, a boyfriend, an education, an art career. He wanted happiness.

Peters thoughts had run so far away from him, that when he heard a scrape across the floor the boy quickly became startled. The door was suddenly being pulled open and his eyes squinted in the harsh light streaming in from his room. The naive part of his mind was hoping for someone, anyone that could save him- but he grimaced when he saw Mason's face peering down at him. 

 

The man's large stature looked comical and out of place shoved in the small door frame. His facial hair was cleanly cropped, he was wearing a perfectly tailored suit and shiny shoes. He looked perfect and had a crocodile grin on displayed on his face. To an outsider (and even to Peter), it was hard to believe this man had mere minutes ago committed such an abstract and horrible crime. For a single second, Peter found him self questioning if it ever truly happened. This man seemed so perfect, so kind, so compassionate. He could never hurt Peter- right? But, the cuts and glass shards imbedded in his sides and the finger shaped bruises on his thighs proved that he was not imagining it. He was not imagining what this perfect looking man had done to him. However, the bruises were already starting to turn from their dark blues and purples to lighter, more faded greens and yellows. Soon, they would be gone too and the situation would prove ever mysterious to the boy whose skin they were maring. He would be left with illusive injuries and self doubt. Because, Peter was probably kidding himself, right? The Man in front of him was good.  He would never hurt him. He wanted to protect Peter. 

 

Mason leaned over the small form of the cowering boy and Peter’s body flinched at the sudden movement of the man. At the movement, Mason’s grin dropped from his lips and he leaned forward, into the closet- into his space, resting a large and rough hand on Peter's cheek and sliding the thumb over his skin.

 

Mason stared at him, his eyes were black and dangerous- "You know I love you Annie, right?" his voice was soft and Peter shuddered at the combination of the descriptive tone and his birth name.

 

"You know I would never hurt you, right? ...now that May's gone you're my only princess left and I need you Annie. I love you so much Annie. I love you my gorgeous, gorgeous girl."

 

Peter's heart was beating so fast, he was worried that the movement would be visible on his naked chest. He wanted to scream and shout. He was not a girl. Peter was not a fucking girl and Mason did not love him. Mason did not get to love him, because he had hurt him and did not deserve Peter.  But, Mason's eyes seemed kinder than before and the hand perched on his cheek was soft and loving. Peter desperately wanted a dad and Mason was the closest thing he was going to get to a father. He knew that it was pathetic, but some people were just bad people and bad people deserve bad things. Peter was a bad person, so he deserve a shitty father- that’s just how it works.

 

When he goes to speak, his voice is weak and he stutters when he speaks. He sounded years younger than he really was when he finally gets out an air, "I..I know Daddy, I k-kn-kno-know th-th-a-a-t yo-ou love m-m-me."

 

Masons eyes glinted with hunger and surprise at the words Peter spoke, but he quickly schooled his expression and slyly replied, "Alright Princess, let's get you cleaned up sweetheart. Daddy's gonna help ya get nice and clean. Such a silly girl getting all messy in Daddy’s cum- I know you love it tho, little cum slut.”

 

His voice turns from sultry to angry as he continues, “Some mean man is here to see you and he probably wants to take you away from your Daddy. But, you're not gonna let that happen, right princess. Right??" His tone turned darker at the last sentence and wanting to appease him, Peter quickly nodded his head yes. 

 

He would be good. He would be so so good for his Daddy because he wanted to be loved. He needed to be loved and Peter would do anything for affection.

 

"That's a good girl" Mason purred and pulled the shaky boy to his feet, cradling his naked body to his pristine suit. The contrast was night and day between the two. Perfect and sadistic, against naked and broken.

 

Mason quickly lead Peter out of the closet and into the bathroom. Peter kept his head down, he would be submissive if it meant Mason wasn’t mad. If it meant he would get any sort of love. He craved love. He only moved when Mason asked him to tilt his head this way and that as a wet paper towel was pulled over his face. A thick sweater was then pulled over his head- a pair of discarded shorts over his knobbly legs. Mason did not give the boy any underwear and Peter did not care to ask. He did not want to disturb the small acts of kindness he was receiving from the man and he could live without any underwear. His hair had a wet comb run through it, making it appear a little less disheveled and more Peter’s normal look. His body was then sprayed with cologne to combat any lingering smell from the afternoon. 

 

When Mason was done cleaning him up, Peter was given a quick tap on the butt and an exclamation of ‘good girl’ from the man taking care of him. When sent to open the door, Mason stayed hovering behind him the entire time. He held a hand firmly on Peter’s shoulder, only slightly too hard and he had his fake smile plastered on his face.

 

When the door opened, Peter was shocked to find an exasperated Tony Stark standing before him. His eyes were on his watch and his hand was his hip, he looked to not be paying attention. However, when the door squeaked his eyes flew up to meet Peter’s. Peter wanted to shy away, glance back at the ground and be invisible. But, Mr. Stark’s appearance was captivating. He looked exhausted, his clothing was slightly rumpled, his jaw covered in a slight stubble and his eyes were tired looking. But nonetheless, a smile graced his lips at the sight of an apparently ‘freshly showered’ Peter Parker wearing his AC/DC sweater. The boy looked tiny and Tony wanted to scoop him up into a hug and never let go. But when he saw the boys guardian looming behind him, he settled for a slightly annoyed "Kid and I are going to take a walk."

 

Masons eyes slanted at the exclamation and the grip on his shoulder become harder. He spat, "Just who do you think you are?" and Peter's heart sank when he realized that he probably wouldn't get that walk. He would be stuck here and Mr. Stark would be sent away.

 

But never let it be said that Tony Stark didn't get what he wanted. He loudly scoffed and said in a very loud and very menacing tone, "You are really going to play that card with me? I'm Iron Man, the richest man in New York- probably the country, sexy as hell, certified genius. Any of that ring a bell?" 

 

When Mason didn't reply Tony puffed out his chest, grabbed Peter by the hand and muttered, " I thought so, kid and I are going for a walk. Hopefully I won't see you later". 

 

Peter grimaced at the threatening look Mason was sending him, but he gladly took every small victory and let himself be pulled out of the apartment. 

 

"So, I'm thinking burgers, sound good???" Peter stared at Mr. Starl, he had given Peter an option. Peter got to decide!!! But, he knew that it was a facade and people didn't actually care what he wanted. So he politely nodded and Tony grinned at him, "Burgers it is".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack I apologize I wrote this on the subway and it was significantly shorter than I wanted it to be. However, I really wanted to introduce a few themes. Many survivors of abuse go through similar things as Peter is during this chapter. When you're abused by a family member or a loved one it's easy to excuse their actions because you love them and they insist that they love you. This story is going to to focus a lot on the manipulative behaviors and actions of abusers. If you want to direct me towards any resources about abuse or have any questions- feel free to comment.


	4. Anxiety Attacks, Artistic Aptitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter takes a drive, has an anxiety attack and learns that ballet music is healing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wanring for a mild graphic description of an anxiety attack. All my content warnings are in the tags, but I want everyone to stay safe, so I'll post it in the chapter notes as well if it helps.

When the two arrive at the restaurant, tension is heavy in the air. The car ride was quite long, Mr. Stark had wanted to go to Black Tap for ‘rich people’ milkshakes (as Peter had dubbed them) and there was a significant amount of traffic going into Manhattan. The lengthy amount of time had lent itself to tension growing thicker and thicker as the time ticked on. Peter’s entire body had been hunched in on himself, Mason had not given him a binder to wear and he was scared every shift of his body would show the curve of his breasts silhouetted against the thick sweatshirt. Peter wasn’t out to his mentor, scared if rejection and the horrors that came with older men knowing his secrets. With Mason, peter was his princess- his little girl- but wit Mr. Stark he was Spider-Man. He was strong and powerful. He was just another one of the guys, building robots in the lab and taking about girls. Mr. Stark always asked him about girls. It was good natured and made his belly feel warm and happy. So, he nodded his head and talked about MJ and Liz and that girl in his algebra class with the pretty hair and straight teeth. He never mentioned that he met MJ in Midtown’s Gay Straight Alliance (the one time he had worked up the nerve to go) and he never mentioned that she was as gay as he was. He never mentioned Mason, or the time Flash spread photos of him sucking Casey Carlile’s dick under the bleachers during gym class, or god forbid the time he sent those pictures to the nice old man he met online who said he loved him. He never told him, because with Mr Stark he could pretend to be normal. Peter could pretend to be a cisgender, heterosexual male who likes drinking beer and touching girls boobs. He hid the fact that breasts made his skin crawl and the only time he drinks is so he can be sad enough to feel numb and forget. Peter just wanted to be normal and he was willing to do anything to hide the fact that he was anything but normal. He would hide and lie and destroy every value in his book just to keep up the illusion of normalcy. 

When the cars rumbling stops, the air conditioning is cut off and he can feel eyes on the side of his face, Peter finally looks at the man next to him. They had spent the majority of the ride in silence, and Peter can't help but to tremble and the questioning look Mr. Stark gives him. His eyes are kind and his mouth is quirked on one side, his expression is somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Peter’s eyes drop down to his lap, he probably did something wrong and Peter knows that the best answer to do something wrong is keeping your head down and excluding and air of guilt. A hand lands on his shoulder and Peter can’t help but to flinch away from it. He was trying so hard to be sorry, to look genuinely remorseful. But, he knows it is too late. Mr. Stark is going to hurt him now. He was bad and Mr. Stark si going to hurt him and he deserves it because bad girl deserve to be hurt. The air in the car is suffocating and Peters body is shaking uncontrollably. He doesn’t want to be hurt, he doesn’t want Mr. Stark to hurt him. But his mind is clouded and he can only see in measurements of cum stained sheets, bloody cuts and finger shaped bruises on his thighs. He doesn’t want to be hurt, but he’s hoping a simple hit will be it. Mr. Stark is all he has left and Peter dreads the day that he finds out that Peter is nothing but a filthy whore. Nothing but wet holes to be filled, a fuck toy to be played with.

“Peter, kid. Fuck, kiddo, you have to listen to me Pete” Tony’s voice feels far away, and Peter’s brain is floating. He feels so far away from Tony’s hand burning into his shoulder and his voice whispering in his ear. “Breath, breath, breath…” is being repeated over and over and over. And Peter tries to hold onto it. He tries so hard to ground himself, but all he can feel is the hand on his shoulder and the breath both hot and icy on his neck. 

“Please Pete, listen to me. It’s going to be ok..I promise it is going to be ok.” Peter recognizes that voice, it is a safe voice. A good voice. A happy voice. Peter’s breathing begins to even out. Air rushes into his mouth through the cracks in his fingers. He's not sure when he stuffed them into his mouth, but at this point he doesn’t care. The shame is already present and he feels like he has nothing to lose. So, he continues sucking on his fingers and finally realizing the hand is not a threat tries to nuzzle closer to its owner. The process is sloppy, they are still in the car and the center console serves as barrier. It cuts deep into his side, but he ignores it in favor of curling into the safety of the man next to him.  
\---

Tony seemed confused. He kept stealing subtle glances at the boy practically burrowed into his side. At the rise and fall of his chest as breaths evened in out, the fingers jammed into his mouth like a toddler, the edge of a bruise dancing at the hem of his shirt. Tony with his many anxiety diagnoses is no stranger to panic attacks, but he is truly unsure why the boy in front of him just had one. He doesn’t understand what happened, what led to this level of panic at what he can possibly do to help. When Tony has a panic or anxiety attack, he isolates himself and locks himself in his lab to work. Peter is so young, so precious, so full of life that he can not imagine that working for him. He wants to be there for th eboy, but he's not sure how to. Social interactions have never been much for the man. Graduating college in your teens, and growing up with your best friend being a butler (who also pretty much raised you) tends to do that to people. But, something about the small boy curled into him, made his heart melt and every paternal instinct he never knew he had woke up when he stared at the boy. He wanted to hold this boy in his arms forever and never let go. He wasn’t sure what was happening with the boy, but it was clearly something. Maybe a bully at school, a bad petrol or problems with a girl. God knows Tony understood being an angsty teen, so he wasn’t going to push anything unless Peter came to him about it. He didn’t want to overstep into the boy’s life, but he wanted Peter to know he could trust him. Finding a balance was hard, but Tony knew it must be done. 

“Hey kiddo,” Tony started and big brown eyes started up at him “I don’t think either of us are feeling up to sitting in a restaurant” he poked Peter’s side and got a small giggle from the boy “New plan, take out + movie night, sound like a plan buddy.” Peter blushed at the nickname, but he shyly nodded. He twisted the fingers in his mouth, and a smile complimented the rosy color of his cheeks. This boy would definitely be the death of Tony Stark. “Then you can sleep over, give me your phone and I’ll call whats his name for you- Martin or whatever.” Peter giggled again and Tony smiled. Grabbing the phone from the teens outstretched hand he responded “Alright kiddo, chocolate or strawberry Milkshakes, aso I’m thinkin’ burgers but we can do cheeseburgers if a certain little spider wants them” 

Peter started up at the man and cocked his head to the side. His face looked of pure and utter concentration. “Ummmm chocolate, and and and cheese burgers please…” he looks like he’s thinking again and then several seconds later brusts ut “OH AND PICKLES, CAN WE GET PICKLES MR. STARK???????”

Tony lets out a rumbling laugh and swipes a hand through the boys hair, “Pickles it is kiddo, I’ll be right back. You stay here” he says and then he slides the keys back into the ignition “Now, don’t going driving off with the car,” he starts, wiggling his eyebrows “But, definitely blast some tunes. Peter giggles and as Tony walks from the car into the restaurant he can’t help but marvel at how this adorable, nerdy, caring young man came into his life. 

\---

When Mr. Stark leaves the car, Peter shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He wants to go home, with Mr. Stark. He really does. He wants to drink milkshakes and sleep in a comfy bed with clean sheets and watch movies. He wants to hang out with whatever other friendly faces are frequenting the compound currently and he wants nothing more than to feel safe. But, part of his brain knows that he will not feel safe. The curves of Steve and Bucky’s muscles will look to familiar, Clint’s jokes to calculating and the loud boom of Thor’s voice will make his skin crawl. Maybe Nat will be good and Pepper will be fun to hang out with. They’re smart, Natasha gives good hugs when no one is looking and Pep smells like strawberries. But, he does not want to be around so many men that can hold him down, super soldiers with strength equal to his own and a stature far bigger than his. Not to mention that Mason wouldn’t let him go. He wouldn’t want his whore out of his sight.

Peter needed to go home now. Mason was sure to be mad at him, and it just wasn’t worth it. The boy fumbled in his pocket for his phone. The boy would surely be punished for making Mason drive to Manhattan, but it would be worth it to make him happy. He searched for his phone fruitlessly, until he realized that he gave it to Mr. Stark to make a call to Mason. Fuck, he needed to get his phone back or he needed to get home. He looked longingly at the steering wheel, but cursed himself when he realized that driving was out of the option seeing as he didn’t know how. He could run into the restaurant to grab his phone, but that would not only cause a scene- it would probably make Tony worry. His eyes wandered over to the keys still left in the ignition, but once again that served to be a bad idea. Not only did he not know how to drive, he was not trying for the first time in Mr. Stark’s ridiculously expensive car. He was already terrified of how the man didn’t seem to like him, he would not sacrifice his emotions for a short lived joy ride in his mentors car. So, he curled his body up into a ball, the joys of being small meant his entire body could fit on the seat and flicked on the radio. He flipped through several stations blasting pop songs, until he turned down the volume and settled on a soft classical piece. It was Tchaikovsky -a gay icon in the classical world- and the type of music Peter could spend hours lost in while he painted. He had not painted in a while and his mind and hands ached for the peaceful serenity of acrylics swiping over canvas. Maybe if he wound up at the compound, Steve would paint with him. It would be peaceful and Peter would love to get lost in the creativity. The paint, a probable welcome distraction from the fear that would cloud his mind and fill his senses with dread. 

“You know, when I said blast some tunes, this really wasn’t what I meant.” Tony’s hand turned the volume dial all the way up, and ballet music reverberated through the space “You know I didn’t peg you for a classical lover, but we can definitely make this work. I’m more of a heavy metal, classical rock kinda person, but Mozart works too” 

Peter laughed, “it’s Tchaikovsky…”

“Ya ya ya ya… same difference, Anyway I talked to Marvin and he was a little snoot. But, you’re good to come to the compound and cause it’s a friday you can stay with Daddy Stark as long as your little heart desires…” 

Peter blanched at the nickname, but simply nodded his head. He was going to the compound and everything was going to be ok….well hopefully. “Alright then, I’m thinking food with the movie, but here I got you a fancy shake. Peanut butter and chocolate, wait can spiders even eat this????”

Peter rolled his eyes “I’m a spider, not a dog”

“You’re telling me…” Tony huffed, “Anyways, time to roll out.” Tony shifted the car into drive, and they were back to zooming through city streets on their way upstate. The fact that tony drove hours just to pick him up, was never lost on Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH I'm feeling proud of this one. We're starting to get somewhere plot wise and that is super exciting. Next chapter Tony and Peter will be at the compound and I have no real plan fo who he meets/spends time with while there (if anyone) so I'm up tp suggestions. If you have someone you would like to see in the next chapter or just the story, drop a comment and I'll seriously consider it. Thanks!!


	5. Pity Party, Paralyzed Punk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter arrives at the compound, has an oblivious father figure and takes a very eventful bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't posted in a while, so have the longest chapter to date with significant development!

The car rolled to a stop outside of the compound. The building was a towering fortress against the slightly overcast sky and despite his familiarity with it, Peter was still feeling anxious. He had spent a significant amount of time there over the past year or so, and it even felt like a second home to him. But, something about today felt different. For one, his heart was beating faster and his head felt clouded and murky. The second being that for the first time, he was terrified of who he would see upon entering the building. Peter, was no stranger towards the other Avengers- having fought with most of them before. However, they knew Spider-Man and had never meet him as Peter Parker- apart for a few occasions when he was easily brushed off as just an intern. However, those times didn’t hold much impact and they had never met Peter Parker before. Puny Penis Parker- bullied loser. They knew an image of everything Peter felt he was not. A strong man, who could fight everyone else's problems and protected his fellow New Yorkers against crime.

Lately, he felt like he didn’t deserve that title- Spider-Man that is. He couldn’t protect himself, so how could he protect others? How could he save little girls from rape, when he felt like another little girl giving into anything to make Mason happy, anything to appease the man that terrified him. Peter hated that he would do anything to make Mason happy. He felt weak, he felt pathetic...he felt like a girl. And not even a strong girl- like Pepper or Natasha. No, he felt like a helpless little girl, who could never be a man- nonetheless a strong one like Spider-Man. His entire life, Peter felt like he was fighting to be respected as male. He felt born into the wrong body- the wrong life. Every single fucking day was a fight he couldn’t win and recently he just wanted to give up. He had forgotten what it was like to live in measurements of smiling and laughing and going out for ice cream at the tail end of hot summer days. He forgot what it felt like to be confident, to breathe deeper on mornings after a storm and promise his Aunt that he would never give up. Not on himself or on the world. He forgot what love felt like without pain. He forgot that tears shouldn’t brand your skin and cover your wrist and thighs like shackles holding him down. He forgot that life was not one stream of pain, one endless battle he was constantly losing.

A hand is placed on his shoulder as the warm early evening light floods through the windows of the parked car. He is conflicted, because the hand simultaneously feels like a painful death sentence and a promise of freedom.

“Hey Pete,” Mr. Stark’s voice is uncharacteristically soft “let’s go inside kiddo” Peter involuntarily shakes his head no. He doesn’t want to go inside. He doesn’t want to be faced with the weight of other people and the shifting tides of an evening that already seems doomed.

The boy lets out a whine and buries his face into the sweatshirt wrapping his small body, Mr. Stark looks confused and uses the hand on his shoulder to try and free his hidden head from it’s spot nestled into the sweater. “ Ya, kid…..please come inside. You’re really worrying me Peter and I want to help. Peter simply whines more, letting out a sound like a trapped animal. He wants so badly to just let in and go inside. If he’s inside maybe he will finally be safe.  
But, his brain is screaming at him that he must get home as soon as possible. He needs to get home, he needs to be with his daddy. He needs Mason to not be mad. Mason is going to be mad at him. Mad. Mad. Mad. Mason will be Mad.

\---

Peter is truly scaring him. He is curled into his body, keeps on mumbling the word ‘mad’ over and over again, and his fingers are embedded into his shaking palms- tiny crescent shaped marks are weeping blood. He his hiding from the man, like he is scared. Scared of him. Tony doesn’t know what he would do if Peter was scared of him. The boy is like a son to him- or at least the closest he has. He feels like all Tony has left and he desperately needs Peter to be ok. He needs to make sure the skid is safe and healthy and happy. He wants to help, but he feels like he’s making it worse. He is trying so hard to make it better, but clearly it isn’t working.

The boy looks teetering on the edge of another panic attack and that would make two in the course of a few hours. Tony didn’t even know the boy had anxiety and it becomes aunty clear to him that Tony is obviously not a good inflicene. He is letting his own anxiety get in the way, his own issues ruin the image of a perfect boy. He is teaching behaviors that he never wants Peter to having, and passing on the worst of his own traits.

Peter Parker is this amazing, sweet, kind, talented and incredibly brilliant child. Tony is a broken man, with trauma higher than the sky, multiple mental illnesses plaguing his brain and alcohol problems to boot. He would be a horrible father, and as much as he hates Mason, Peter is probably better off with him. He is probably better with a strong father figure. One who loved him, someone that will always be there and is not off saving the world or drinking himself into oblivion. Someone who can promise not to die to recklessly, and someone who can not only take care of them self- but also another human being.

Tony would do anything to save Peter. He would but his entire life on the line if it meant the sweet boy sitting next to him could have a better life than his own. That’s really what he is most scared of, giving Peter something better than what he had. A better father than Howard. If that meant sending him to spend more time with Mason, distancing himself for the boy’s sake- he was willing to sacrifice his own feelings for Peter’s well beings.

Tony sighed and finally turned to talk to the boy again, “Alright Peter, I know something is obviously wrong- but clearly I am not the person you want to talk to right now.” Peter started to protest, but he quieted the boy- “ I know that you don’t want to go inside right now, but it’s almost 8:30 and I don’t think either of us have a trip back to Queens in us right now. So, let’s scratch the movie night and I want you to go straight to bed. I know that it sucks, but I promise you will feel so much better after you rest. Then in the morning, Happy can drive you back home.” His voice must of sounded stricter, because the boy stills next to him and frantically shakes his head no. Tony feels guilty, but he reminds himself that this is for the best. Peter will have a strong father figure, and Tony won’t fuck it up for the perfect boy next to him. Howard was bad enough, Peter doesn’t need a Stark man in his life. “Well alrighty then,” he says, exiting the car and straightening his suit “I’m going to go on in, you know where your room is.” And with that, he turns and heads towards the compound. At the sounds of sobs from the car he desperately wants to turn back and hug the crying boy. He wants to promise to never leave and that everything is going to be alright. But he refuses to ruin the kids life and keeps on walking away. If he does own thing right in his life, it’s going to be keeping Peter Parker safe and happy.

\---

The rest of the night went slowly for Peter, he knows what rejection feels like and is very used to it. No one wants Penis Parker and he’s ok with that, but he is still surprised and hurt that this happened. Tony was supposed to be the exception, he was supposed to save Peter. But, Peter can’t count on anyone to save him and broken little trannys don’t get love. And that’s what Peter is- right?

It took everything Peter he had to finally leave the car and trudge up the steps towards the compound. He knows that Tony doesn’t want him there and he feels dirty using his hospitality. But, Peter has no where else to go and maybe if he spends the night wandering around- he won’t be seen.So Peter does just that. Ignoring the command to go straight to bed, he wanders the halls for what feels like hours until he finally stops in the residential section of the compound. He can hear laughter from the common area and a video game playing on the screen, his heart aches for the peaceful joy radiating from the room. But, Peter ignores it in favor of settling into his own room.

He can’t help but smile when he finally pushes open the big doors. The room is eerily similar to the one in his Queens apartment- Mr. Stark was clearly paying attention. There is a bigger bed, fancier clothing and more experience technology, but other than that it’s virtually the same. Star Wars Posters stare down at him from the walls and a few textbooks liter the shelfs Everything's the same, expect Peter feels like he is going to vomit when he realizes how fucking different it is.

The soft blue sheets are clean. They refuse to paint an abstract picture of violent crime in the form of blood stains and cum. The floor is clear and no used condoms peek out from under the desk or next to discarded textbooks. There is no hidden packet of rusty razor blades covered in dry blood under the pillows and the smell of alcohol does not grace the air. There are no ghosts hiding in the walls here.

The room should feel more normal to him, it looks just like any teen boys room. It looks like what his room used to look like. But, instead it makes Peter feel even less normal. It makes him feel out of place, like a stain or rotten food at the back of your fridge that you throw away with disgust. Peter doesn’t deserve this normal space. He is too broken for this perfect room. His body craves pain and his mind is a war zone. This room deserves a perfect boy and he is a broken little girl. Peter is full on sobbing now and he wants to tear apart the room. He wants to throw things and scream until his throat is raw. He wants to bang his head against the wall until it bleeds and paint his body with cum stains and blood. Why do people keep on treating him like he is this perfect boy, when he feels broken beyond repair?  
**His body is not a piece of paper you can tear apart and tape back together again.**  
Peter feels like his mind is floating and he is trying to bring himself back to reality. Reel in his body and mind. Control his feelings and his reactions. He hates feeling out of control, but lately that is all he is capable of feeling. Control slips through his fingers like the sand on the bottom of an hourglass.  
The pillows on his bed looks inviting. His head is swimming and all he wants is to sleep and rid the emotions from the day. It was a hard day, at least harder than most and sleep is a reset. A clean slate and a promise of a better tomorrow.

His clothing feels scratchy on his skin and the fabric is suffocating. He forces deep breathing, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10- and grabs sweatpants and a shirt from a pile of clean clothes sitting on the desk. He refuses to look at his body as he changes. Keeping his eyes screwed firmly shut, He feels too dirty to touch the clean clothing and the perfect bed. But, nonetheless he changes and dives into the clean sheets. Enveloped in the soft blue and green comforter, he closes his eyes and presses his face into the discarded ACDC sweater. The smell of Mr. Stark is heavy in the air and he finds himself lulled into a pseudo sumbler.

\---  
_Peter can feel warm air on his neck. It is uncomfortable and he twists to get away, but a firm a hand is holding him place and forcing him down. He tries to struggle, he doesn’t want to be here. He wants to leave, but the arms are too strong and he feels too small._  
 _“Smile for daddy” is whispered in his ear and Peter is screaming. His thraot feels red hot and he needs to get away. He needs to get away. He needs to get away. But, he is trapped._  
 _There is too much warm air on his neck and the arms are too strong. They are forcing him to stay down. He wants to leave. He wants to leave. He needs to leave._  
 _“Don’t worry sweetie. Daddy is here for you. Daddy loves you so so much Princess.”_  
 _There is a hand on Peter’s chest and he cries out. “Daddy’s little whore” is being whispered in his ear over and over again and rough fingers knead his breasts. Peter is crying so hard his vision is blurred, but when he looks up he clearly sees that Mason’s teeth are sharpened and his eyes are pitch black “Daddy’s got you”_  
\---  
Peter wakes up with a start. He is disoriented, tears are running down his face and the smell of urine is heavy in the air. At the smell, he is suddenly aware of the warm dampness surrounding him. His crying gets louder. His sheets are sticky and wet, but Peter doesn’t care. The part of his brain most ruled by the need to survive is simply relieved to be out of his nightmare. He feels some sort of safety now. His mind is still fuzzy, but at least he is safe.

  
The feeling of a thumb stuffed in his mouth- that also serves to muffle his sobs- and the warmth of his urine soaked bed is strangely comforting. He feels safe and warm. His tears don’t stop flowing, but Peter feels lost in another world. He curls up into a ball and tries so desperately to forgot the horrific nightmare. He focuses on the warmth and the weight of his thumb in his mouth. He is here and he is safe. He is safe and content in his warm blanket, and the scent of Mr. Stark is grounding him.

  
The grounding techniques seem to work for a short a while. A temporary solution to a larger problem. However, as time goes on the dampness becomes more cold and more uncomfortable. His head still feels fuzzy, but the itch and burn on his thighs and legs threaten to bring him back to the world he is trying to escape. Tears fall down his face and he scrambles to escape the confines of the sheets around him- hoping that if he is no longer wet he will feel better. Whilst trying desperately to escape from the sheets, Peter falls smack down onto the floor with a thud. The loud sound resonates in the room and his cries are now louder. He no longer feels safe. His groin feels wet and gross, his head is pulsating from the smack to the ground and the tears, and his entire body is shaking with sobs. He is scared and he simply curls into a ball and tries to crawl under the bed. He is only half successful when the door to his room cracks open. His eyes squint in the bright light and his cries became louder and more frantic.

  
The lights are suddenly dimmed again as a person blocks him from their view. His stature is large and bulky in the door. Shoulders hit the frames on either side and he appears to have short hair, but several longer locks of dark hair frame his face. He looks dangerous, even more so then Mason, and Peter quickly bites down on his thumb to stifle his cries. Blood floods his mouth, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to be invisible. Because Maybe, he thinks, if I'm quite he won’t see me. But that thought seems fruitless when the man steps further into the room and quickly shuts the door. He tries to stumble through the darkness towards Peter, failing until he finally curses under his breath and leans over to flick the light switch on.  
When artificial lights flood through the room, Peter tries to curl further into himself. He is clinging to the idea that maybe he won’t see him, but he knows it is a crazy idea to feign. But, Peter tries hard to be invisible because the man standing in front of him is scary. He is wearing all black, although they are in the form of lounge pants and a crumpled slightly too big shirt it is still menacing. His hair is pulled into a low bun at the nape of his neck and and his jaw is outlined with a little scruff. His eyes- though light- seem dark with mystery. The most terrifying part of him is a glinting metal arm. It is reaching out to grab his shoulder and Peter shivers. He knows that arm and seeing it coming towards him reminds him of the time he caught it mid punch in a Germany airport. Even though Peter knows he is strong enough to stop it, he is still terrified. He feels too small to catch it right now and his mind is not in the right place. He fears the fuzziness in his brain would not support hand to hand combat.

  
Peter lets out a loud and protesting whine when he realizes the hand is not stopping and he tries desperately to back further under the bed. When he sees that the boy is scared, the man drops his metal arm and in a low, gruff voices says “Hey, punk- I’m not going to hurt you.” Peter tries to back further under the bed once again, but finally the hand is pulling him out and he can’t help but scream. All he can feel is Mason’s hands pulling his feet and throwing him onto the bed. All he can feel is hands holding him down and crud words being thrown his way.  
He is thrashing and trying to escape- sure that he is back in Queens with Mason. But, this strange man is pulling him out from under the bed and into his lap with a tenderness Mason never possessed, “I don’t think you know me, and I’m not sure why you’re here- and it’s not really important now. But, I’m Bucky and I can help you clean up if you like” The words seem a strain to the man, like every syllable is lead on his tongue, but Peter is caught by his introduction. This is Bucky. He’s meet him before- not as Peter- but he knows him at least.  
Slowly, but surely his breathing starts to even out. His face is pressed into Bucky’s shoulder and he feels safe. He wants to sleep right here and now, maybe if he feels this safe the nightmares won’t come. But, when his start to drift closed Bucky shakes him a little. “Hey champ, I don’t know about you but I wouldn’t want to sleep if I was all sticky and gross,” Peter’s face flushes, but he shly nods “I think maybe I can help you get into a bath and then you can sleep, also perhaps knowing who you are would be helpful in this process.”

Peter blushes again and around his thumb sleepy mutters “Peter...”

  
“Alright Punk, ” Bucky’s voice is grumbling again “I’m going to take you to my bathroom because I have some nice lavender body scrub, and we can get you all cleaned up. I know that you’re scared, but I promise I understand that. I spent a lot of my life feeling scared...” He trails off and with that, Bucky surprises the boy with scooping him up into his arms and carrying him through the hallway towards the last door in the row. When Peter is in the hallway he feels exposed and he starts squirming. Sensing Peter’s discomfort the man whispers in his ear “Don’t worry Punk, I’m the only one up seeing as it’s 4 in the morning. I was doing some reading and heard a smack and tears- thought it might be ol’ Stevie and he’s too proud to get help. But when I heard that it was from a room we don’t usually use, I thought I would check up. I’m glad I did.” Peter hums and doesn’t seek more information. Instead he curls once more into the strong chest and tries to sleep. “None of that now,” Bucky chides gently, finally placing the boy on the closed toilet seat when they reach his bathroom, “Stay awake for a little longer kid.” Peter nods again and rubs his eyes tiredly with the hand that is not firmly placed in his mouth.

  
Bucky turns to the tub and starts filling it with warm water, adding a few drops of shampoo to hopefully make some bubbles- or at least some nice smelling suds. He is planning on leaving the room to give the boy some privacy, but when he turns Peter looks helpless. Wet clothing is uncomfortably stuck to his skin, thumb is still lodged in his mouth and he feels lost. Bucky sighs conflicted, and says “Alright champ, I’m going to help you with this part unless you want to do it yourself. If you want me to leave please tell me now doll” Not getting a reaction, Bucky starts trying to coax the thumb out of the boy’s mouth. When the boy finally relinquishes the thumb, he quickly pulls urine soaked clothing from the boy- like you would a toddler.  
When Peter starts to feel clothing being pulled from his body, he starts shaking. He knew Bucky was too good to be true. He had felt safe and happy for a little bit, but he is not allowed to feel safe and happy. Bucky was clearly only nice to him because he wanted something. Peter was a whore, so he shouldn’t be surprised that older men always wanted something from him. He didn’t exactly want to offer himself to Bucky, but he knew that at the signal he would be ready to fulfill whatever the man wanted of him.

  
When he is finally stripped of all his clothing, Peter is left standing naked and shivering in the center of the room. He feels lost and wants Bucky to take control, but the man had fallen silent a few seconds again. When Peter finally tips his head up to look at him, Bucky simply looks confused. His head is tilted to the side and he looks to be thinking deeply. “Hey champ,” He starts, his voice still gruff but slightly shaking “...are you a girl???” Peter starts weeping at that question and Bucky quickly backtracked “Alright Punk, you’re a boy. The best boy to ever boy. I have a metal arm so it’s not like I can complain about having a weird body.” Peter giggles at that and Bucky took that as a sign to lead him to step into the water. Holding onto the his hand, Bucky guides him to sink into the tub. When he hits the water Peter feels significantly calmer, he is safe here. He is going to be ok.

  
“Alright champ, clean up so you don’t get a rash. I’ll be over here” He says pointing to the toilet. Peter smiles and nods, but simply stays sitting in the tub. His limbs barely move and he stares at Bucky from the water. He vaguely understands that he should start washing his body, but his body refuses to move.

  
After a few minutes when it is made clear that Peter is not going to clean himself, Bucky sighs and kneels down next to the tub. He squirts a generous amount of body wash onto his hands, and reaches forward to clean the boy He really doesn’t want Peter to get what he considers a slightly glorified teenage diaper rash and he will clean the punk if he won’t do it himself.  
All is good as he lathers the boys torso and upper back with the thick lavender body wash. All is good until Bucky reaches his hand into the water to do Peter’s legs and the most affected parts from the urine soaked sheets and clothing. Suddenly the boy is crying out, he is thrashing and water is is splashing everywhere. Onto Bucky, the tiles of the floor and even hitting the door.  
Peter’s voice sounds small and helpless as he begs, “Please, please no. I’ll be good. Mason, Daddy- Mason. Please. Good. Good. I’m a good girl I promise. PLEASE DON’T.” Bucky’s hand is quickly pulled from the water at the reaction. He knows a flashback when he sees it and he wants to help so badly, but Peter is already gone.

  
His mind is screaming at him and all he can feel is Mason’s breath hitting his neck and his hand holding his thighs open. He can only feel tears and blood hitting the water. He can feel glass cutting his skin and the feeling of fingers violently slamming into his vagina. Peter’s body is violently shaking and he feels like he so desperately needs to escape. But he is not sure how. His mind is caught between places and all he knows is that he needs to escape. HE NEEDS TO ESCAPE RIGHT NOW. He doesn’t want to be here anymore and he thrusts his body into the water. He is not sure if it the water covered in glass and blood of his home, or the water that smells like lavender in Bucky’s bathroom- but he does know that if he keeps his head down long enough he wills top breathing. If he waits the perfect amount of time black spots will dance at the corners of his eye sight and he will finally feel escape. He tries so hard to envelope his entire body in water and escape the burden of air filling his lungs. But, no matter how hard he tries he can’t. Something is stopping him.

  
Strong arms are around his body and he desperately tries to escape them. At this moment he truly and fully wants to die. He craves the sweet escape of death, but the strong arms aren’t letting him. pleasepleasepleaseplEASE PLEASE. HE NEEDS IT.  
Peter entire body is pulled from the bathtub and he is forced to stay down on the bathmat by strong arms. He is sopping wet and he has never felt more naked and vulnerable than in this moment. The hands feel to real and he feels hands in his hair, and he wants to pull away. They are going to hurt him, they will make him do things he never wants to do. Things that make shame burn on skin like brands. But, the feeling of metal is cool on his scalp and he is pulled back in. He feels the cool metal and he smells lavender thick in the room. This is Bucky’s bathroom. Those are Bucky’s hands. He is safe here and even though he is wet and sad and naked on the floor of a bathroom that is not his own, he is going to be ok. He knows that he is going to be ok.

  
Exhausted from the day, Peter is limp on the floor as a he feels a soft towel dry him off, hands pull him into new clothing and soft nothings being whispered into his ears. They clothes are big on him, but they make him feel safe. He cuddles into the warmth and lets himself be lead to a bed that is not his own. He should be scared, but Peter is too tired for emotions and just lets it happen.

  
“Get some sleep Champ” He hears as he is tucked into a thick blanket. It is made of a soft material and the Peter finds himself tracing patterns into the fabric. Bucky stiffly crosses the room. He hoovers by the door, looking contemplative, “I’m going to go clean up your sheets punk, please try to sleep…”  
Despite the suggestion to sleep Peter stiffly sits on the bed. He continues to traces patterns into the warm blanket and refuses to let his mind wander. He is terrified of his thoughts and doesn’t want to be sucked back in again. Today was one of the longest days of his life and he refuses to make it longer.

  
However, he can’t begin to think about sleep until the door is pushed back open once again. Bucky looks disappointed when he sees Peter still awake, but he simply mumbles “sleep” and crosses the room. He sits down in a well loved armchair near the doorway. Finally feeling safe again, Peter sighs and feels every emotion and tension leaving his muscles. He leans into the warmth of the bed, pops two fingers into his mouth and lets a dreamless sleep hopefully take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I am seriously in love with this chapter. This also marks the start of the next phase of the story, which is a lot of hurt with no comfort. But, after that Tony Fucking Stark gets his shit together and protects Peter.


	6. Teen Tots, Taxing Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up somewhere new, thinks about the fuzziness and gets a new friend.

When Peter wakes up the next morning, he is feeling both more awkward and content then he has in a very long time. 

 

The events of last feel fuzzy to him, and he is not sure what happened. But, what he does know is that he is in a bed that is not his own and wearing clothing that do not belong to him. There is a soft puddle of spit pooled on the pillow next to him from where drool dripping from the gaps around the fingers (that were no doubt in his mouth the entire night). 

 

Peter’s face flushes bright red and he moves to be away from the drool. However, nothing can ruin the glory of these soft sheets, because for the first time in months the sheets are clean. There are no blood and cum stains maring the soft comforter, no humiliating patches of urine from bad dreams or times he felt disconnected from his body. No, the sheets are clean and so is Peter. He feels dry and pure and soft and young- feelings that have been illusive to the boy recently. He feels relaxed and rejuvenated. If not slightly confused, because he truly has no idea where he is and want he is doing here. 

 

He is somewhere foreign and unfamiliar, yet happy- which makes no sense to the boy. Usually when he is somewhere new, it is a bad thing. He was used in a way that makes his skin crawl or he fell asleep in a mysterious place.

 

He spends the next couple of minutes soaking up the warmth of the sheets and contemplating where he must be. He is sure that Mason hadn’t whored him out for the night (even though he probably deserved it for coming to the compound with Mr. Stark in the first place), because his ass doesn’t feel sore and he is wearing clothing. He also can not tell if he is still at the compound even, because this is decidedly not the nerdy room Mr. Stark had made for him. He wants to be scared, petrified because of the situation. But, he can’t bring himself to feel anything but overwhelmingly safety and happiness. 

 

However, the emotions are broken and the answer to where is he comes to him as his body flinches at the sound of soft snores coming from across the room. 

 

Peter cowers under the comforter in fear as he stares at the source of the sound. Sitting, hunched over in a comfy looking armchair is a man. His body is slumped, he is wearing crumpled black pajamas and his long black hair sticks out in every direction. He looks scary to the boy, but also has an air of being harmless to him. The dark clothing, that should be menacing, are just pajamas and his messy hair makes the man look youthful. He does not look like someone who could hurt Peter, rather a man standing by like a guardian angel- ready to protect him. 

 

Quelled of his fear, Peter starts thinking of the previous night. He is still unsure of what exactly happened, but the man slumped in the armchair across the room clues the boy in slightly. 

 

He remembers waking up to wet sheets. He remembers wanting Mr. Stark and crying when the man didn’t come to comfort him. He remembers a mysterious man coming to the door, his name is Bucky - he now remembers. He remembers embarrassment at Bucky carrying him through the hallway and a warm bath and sweet nothings being whisper in his ear. 

 

Peter also remembers feeling like a dumb, helpless baby. He remembers the hate for himself. He remembers the anxiety attack. And last of all, he remembers refusing to sleep until Bucky returned. 

Glancing across the room at the man sitting in the chair, Peter feels immeasurable guilt. Bucky had sacrificed a lot the night before and had even stayed with Peter when it was clear he needed the comfort. He had stepped up to protect and take care of a teen boy acting like a sullen toddler, a boy he didn’t even know. And holy fucking shit, the last part of the night clicked into Peter’s mind, Bucky had seen Peter’s decidedly, yet repulsively female body and not freaked out. He had even encouraged the boy and made him feel loved. 

 

Tears start to burn behind Peter’s eyes and he feels his mind start to float again. 

 

He has felt this way a lot recently, and he often describes it as floating or feeling fuzzy. But, those are probably not the best words to describe it. It feels like Peter is exiting his body. It feels like he doesn’t have control over who he is, what he does. Humiliatingly enough, it feels like he is a kid again. It feels like he is having the childhood he never really had. Like the weeks he spent wetting the bed after his parents death. Like the rushed childhood he has instead of the one he always craved. 

 

He hates that he craves it, but Peter is not dumb. He knows ‘normal’ teenagers don’t wet the bed and especially not there pants when they are awake and around other people. He knows that sucking his thumb and fingers is pretty strange and that craving physical touch (regardless of his negative reaction to the touch most of the time) is something reserved for fair younger children than he is. 

 

But, Peter is confused and right now he honestly couldn't care if he wasn’t being a ‘normal’ teenager. No, right now he just wants a really good hug from Mr. Stark and to watch a movie and pretend like Mason was no longer in his life. Pretend that he was a kid again, at the liberty of being able to do nothing all day. Just have Mr. Stark take care of him, like he was a father taking care of his three year old. 

 

But, that was never Peter’s life and never will be his life no matter how much he wants it. And he wants it really really badly.

 

Peter, knows he should tell Mr. Stark about this desire. Tell anyone about it. He should probably tell them about Mason too….or the razor blade he craves...or the feeling of emptiness in his stomach all the time. But, Peter would never actually tell. He knows that he deserve the pain, deserves what Mason does to him, because he is a freak and the acting like a kid thing makes him even more of a freak. 

 

What sucks, is that Pete knows somewhere deep down, that he can’t control it. The wettings just happen and he’s not attempting anything to be funny or get more attention. Hell, Peter wants less attention most of the time. But, calling himself a freak gives the boy comfort. Because if he is not a freak, does that mean Peter doesn’t deserve it. And Peter definitely fucking deserves it. 

 

Peter’s mind screams at him for the use of that word. It’s a bad word and he knows not to use it.

 

His mind is slipping fast now and the tears finally start to fall. Slow and steady at first, but eventually turning into big, fat, salty globs dripping down his face and catching in the corner of his mouth or falling with soft thuds onto the blanket. 

 

The boy is in distress now and his sobs wake Bucky up. The man is frowning and gets up out of the chair. He makes to go over to the crying boy, but Peter is terrified of what will happen when he gets closer. 

 

Men are bad. Mason is bad. Men will hurt him. Hurt him. Stick their dicks down his throat and hold him down until his body bruises. Men are terrifying. They’re big and overpowering and scary. 

 

Peter sucks hard on his thumb, whining and whimpering around it. Sensing Peter’s discomfort Bucky stops mid step on his trek to the bed. He looks quizzically at Peter and the boy is terrified of the expression. Is Bucky thinking of all the bad things he can do to Peter. Thinking of the ways to hurt the boy. Hopefully, the man won’t hurt him. He thought this was a good man, if those even exist, so maybe he will take pity. 

 

Bucky moves forward once again, and Peter starts to whine more frantically. But Bucky frowns even harder and instead of moving to hurt the boy, he changes course and turns towards the closet. 

 

Peter lets out a sigh of relief, but he is still scared and keeps his eyes painted on the back of the man. He watches Bucky refile through boxes in the closet. He opens one, searches through and than shuts the lid with a sigh once again. He repeats the process over and over until he final lets out a small cheer and grabs an object, Peter can’t see it and when he turns Bucky hides it behind his back- clearly not wanting Peter to see the hidden object. 

 

Slowly, Bucky makes his way to the bed. It takes forever because he stops and waits several seconds any time Peter whines or whimpers in fear. 

 

When he finally reaches Peter, the boy looks like a mess with tears and snot running down his face. He also looks on the verge of having another accident. Bucky reaches to smooth the boy’s hair and lets out a surprised little huff when Peter lets him. 

 

Peter leans into the soft hands, and his breathing evens out slightly. This is Bucky and Bucky is safe. 

 

When is breathing sounds almost entirely good, Bucky reveals the hidden object from behind his back. 

 

Peter squeals and almost jumps out of the bed to receive the teddy bear the man is holding, it look soft and Peter really wants it. But Bucky scoffs a little and holds it a little farther away. “ Champ, I need you to listen very clearly to me. This is Bucky Bear and he’s a very very very good teddy bear who will take care of you and love you. He used to belong to my friend Stevie, but he doesn’t need Bucky Bear anymore because he can take care of himself now” 

 

Peter contoines to reach his hands out greedily, wanting Bucky bears love and protection. Bucky doesn't give the bear over and continues, “ However, Bucky Bear is only for good little boys and not naughty boys who lie and keep secrets…” Peter rolls his eyes, knowing where this is going, but lets Bucky continue anyways “You can have Bucky Bear, but only if you promise to tell me more about who you are and why you’re here.” Peter nods, but Bucky doesn’t hand over the stuffed animal yet “ I need verbal confirmation champ, can you be a good boy for Bucky Bear?” 

 

Peter scowls, mad at the ultimatum and he crosses his arms like a petulant toddler. But, the bear looks soft and well loved and Peter wants the stuffed animal more than anything. He wants to give it lots of love and kisses and rub the soft brown fur on his face. So he very softly mumbles, “Good boy….i’m good good boy for Bucky Bear…” and then snathces the bear from Bucky’s hand. 

 

Bucky chuckles at the boy, and Peter stiffens in fear. Was he being rude to Bucky, but the tension passes as Bucky chuckles some more and nonetheless ruffles Peter’s hair. He prodes the boy a little to move over and then sits next to him on the bed. 

 

Bucky seems to want to start the conversation right away, but the boy sitting next to him is alternating between rubbing Bucky Bear’s fur over his face, kissing the top of the stuffed bear’s head and squirming around on the bed.

 

Peter loves Bucky Bear soo sooo sooooooo soooo sooooooooooo much and he is so happy that he has him now. He can somewhat acknowledge that the fuzziness is still at the back of his head, but he is not concerned anymore. No, he has Bucky Bear and that’s all Peter wants because Bucky Bear will love and protect him no matter what.

 

Peter feels cool metal touch his upper arm, and he stops himself from flinching. He needs to remind his body that his not in danger. He is not in danger and he is going to be ok, because the feeling of a metal arm on his skin means Bucky is touching him, not Mason. And even if it was Mason, Peter would be safe because Bucky Bear would protect him and Bucky Bear is the bestest bear in the entire world.

 

“Hey Punk,” Bucky’s voice is more rough and grumbling than the softness of the previous conversation, “you’re squirming all over the place kiddo. I took care of my friend Stevie enough times when he was a sick little scrap to know what the elusive ‘potty dance’ looks like, so go use the potty like the good boy you promised you were because I do not want a repeat of last night.” He says sternly.

Peter’s face turns bright red and he starts to argue, but Bucky insists “If you go now, I’m sure Bucky Bear would be happy to go potty too.” 

 

“Fine” Peter grumbles, crossing his arms and grabbing his bear from the bed. 

 

Bucky only laughs at the mean look Peter sends him over his shoulder and pushes the boy towards the bathroom, “I’ll be right here when you finish punk.”

 

At that Peter huffs but heads to the bathroom. He takes care of his business, scowling when he realized that he actually did need to pee, Stupid Bucky knowing that he had to go to the bathroom, and then props up the bear on the toilet. “Time for the potty Bucky Bear!!!” He giggles and makes sure his bear also goes pee and then washes both their hands. He then heads back into the room, sodden bear in hand, waiting for the conversation he does not want to have. His head feels fuzzy, but for once Peter just lets it be. Maybe letting go for a little will be good he thinks. He will finally just get something easy.

 

When he enters the room, Peter is practically skipping and humming to the bear in his hands in joy. However, the boy stops in panic at the sight in front of him. Tony Stark is sitting on the bed, talking to a quietly nodding Bucky. Emotions overtaking him, not wanting Mr. Stark to see him like this, tears start running down his face. At the sound of crying, both heads snap towards him and Peter runs back into the bathroom- slamming the door and locking himself inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was truly just fluff before the storm, Feedback is always appreciated!


	7. Grumpy Giggling, Gentle Guys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter leaves the bathroom, gets oversized pajamas and enjoys a movie.

The moment the door of the bathroom slammed shut, Tony and Bucky were scrambling off of the bed and towards the ensuite bathroom across the room. There was a brief moment where the two seemed to struggle over who would go after the boy; two men fighting for dominance over the out of control situation. 

 

Tony, naturally thought it belonged to him- having both known the boy longer and being closer to him  (though he still refused to admit he thought of the boy in a somewhat paternal way). However, when the man kept on repeating ‘fuck’ over and over under his breath, Bucky snapped.

 

He pushed the man roughly out of the way and got right up in his face. Strands of dark hair fell in his eyes and dusted the face of the man seated under him. 

 

“Listen hear Stark,” he seathed, “That kid does not need to be listening to any of your rotten language” He said, pointing a long, accusatory finger in Tony’s face. He then further pushed Tony behind him, stalked the rest of the way across the room and sat down on the ground. He was sitting criss cross applesauce, facing the closed door of the bathroom and leaning his head in his hand. 

 

“What have you turned into Capsicle?!!?!?!”  Tony exclaimed back, ‘laNgUAge!1!11!!!’ he mocked in a silly tone, only stopping when he heard a giggle from the other side of the closed door. 

 

A soft smile flashed across Tony’s face, “What was that, you find him funny too kid?!?!? What a traitor!” He over unethically exclaimed. 

 

The giggling from the other side of the door stopped abruptly, like the boy was terrified of the reaction to his laughter, but the two men desperately wanted Peter to come out of the bathroom- so they continued their taunts towards each other.

 

“Wow champ, I see how it is…” Bucky added. “I give you Bucky Bear, and now I’m completely undesirable- how rude punk.”

 

“Oh shut up James, we all know he loves me best!” Tony chides.

 

Bucky retorts, “Nuh uh, lil’ punk likes ol’ Uncle Buck the best”

 

Peter is full out laughing now and he can sense the apphernsion of the men on the other side of the door, so in a soft voice he mumbles “Bucky Bear is my reallll favorite, I like him so much more than you meanies” and sticks out his tongue- forgetting that the men can not see him. 

 

He guesses, that part of him is glad they can't see him. If they can't see him, they can't hurt him and Peter is terrified of the pain these men- any men- could inflict on him. He hates that Mason has done that to him. Made him so afraid of every man. Of the sound of their voices and the looming of masculine bodies over him. 

 

He hates it and he hates Mason, but maybe, just maybe it is actually for the best. Maybe Mason is training him into the correct way of thinking, of being, of existing. 

 

Mason loves him and only wants the best for him and if that means a little rough love- then it's fine. As long as he is getting the love he doesn’t care if it’s a little aggressive...right?

 

The smile is off his lips now and Peter has gone back to his apprehension, now curling into a tight ball. He is slowly backing farther and farther under the sink in the corner of the bathroom. He wants the security of the small space enveloping him. Hiding him. Protecting him. 

 

The thought of protection reminds him to hold Bucky Bear closer to his chest. He cuddles him close to his body because maybe his cute, fuzzy friend can help him- even when no one else can. 

 

There is a soft knock on the door of the bathroom. 

 

“Hey champ…” The voice is low and rumbling and the breathing sounds like it is right next to the closed door. “I know that you’re scared, heck I know you barely know me- but I need you to talk to me punk.” 

 

Peter curls further under the sink.

 

A second voice joins the first “Hey kiddo, Petey Pie- you know I love you kid, right?”

 

Peter lets out a strangled, almost inhuman sound. He doesn’t deserve love.

 

“Just open the door… please….we have to talk. Just let me in and I can make everything better-I Promise. “

 

At the sound of that word the lock clicks open and Peter is barreling towards Tony- crashing into him with a hug.

 

He is sobbing now, giant globs of snot and tears running down his face and staining his mentors face. But, Tony just holds him close. He pets the boy’s hair, frowning at every flinch and twist of Peters body. Somebody has hurt him and Tony feels like the world is spiraling out of his control. But he holds onto sainty for the sack of this little boy in his arms and continues to pet his hair soothingly and whisper sweet nothings into his ears. 

 

“It’s all going to be alright”

 

“I promise it’s going to be alright”

 

“I love you”

 

His voice chokes up at those words, because he barely loves. Doesn’t even have the capacity to love. But, when he looks at this little broken boy in his arms, all he wants to be is better than Howard. His childhood was such a shit show, his father such an abusive fuck- that he will never let that happen to Peter. 

 

He knows that he isn’t really Peter’s father and he also knows that maybe it is for the best.

He knows that he is a destructive force and after May, at least Mason is something good in his life. A solid father figure that won’t leave at the drop of a hat. That won’t die at one fatal superhero mission. 

 

There is a tap on his shoulder and all of a sudden Bucky is awkwardly embracing the two of them.  His actions are stiff, as if he doesn’t really understand what he’s doing, but Peter is having none of it and snuggles closer into the two men.

 

In such a quiet voice, Tony worries he might’ve missed it, Peter shakley asks “Is this what family is supposed to be like?” 

 

Tony chuckles and his voice cracks with moisture, “I wouldn’t know Peter. I really wouldn’t know.”

\---

 

Later that day, Peter is sat on the couch sandwiched in between Mr. Stark and Bucky. He is wearing an oversized MIT sweatshirt, with the name ‘Stark’ embroidered on the back (right next to the words ‘robotics team’), and dark red and purple flannel sweatpants rolled up nearly 8 times to make them fit even a little. Despite them being rolled up so many  times, the sweatshirt and pants still drown the boy and he looks even smaller than he is. This was not Tony’s original intent, but he still marvels at the adorable boy. After all the tears this morning, Tony had tried to direct Peter into some of his own clothing, but Peter wouldn’t stop crying until he was dressed in at least one article of clothing from both his mentor and Bucky. 

 

He also had a thick purple blanket wrapped around him -it was embroidered with little silver hawks and Peter had suspicions of who it had originally belonged to- and Bucky Bear was perched sloppily in his lap. His fingers kept on finding their way into his mouth and everytime it happened one of the two men would frown and pull it out of his mouth, with a wet ‘pop’ sound, sometimes reminding him that they were too dirty for mouths.   

 

Tony supposed that he should be worried about the young boy acting like an overgrown toddler. It should be concerning to him, but sadly it didn’t and thoughts came rushing to his mind. 

 

_ A young Tony sat curled up on Rhodey’s bed. His thumb was planted firmly in his mouth and his best friend was soothing him after a practically bad phone call with his father. A phone call that ended in Howard screaming death threats over the phone.  _

 

_ Tony sitting staring at a bath after the events of his kidnapping, wanting nothing more than to take a nice hot bath with his rubber duckies and lavender bubble bath - but being terrified that water monsters would eat him. _

 

_ Tony curled up like a cat next to his bots, throwing a ball up and down into the air for them to catch.  _

 

_ Tony stretched out on the ground creating an entire city made from his lego blocks. Soft music playing in the background as he furthers his masterpiece, sucking on a juice box and munching on goldfish and apple slices.  _

 

The memories continued playing like a reel of a movie.  Tony Stark was no stranger to age regression. He doesn’t do it nearly as intensive or as often as he once did -some of that being attributed to Rhodey being less and less available as time went on- but for the longest time, curling up with a pacifier and teddy bear and cuddling with Rhodey was his biggest and best coping mechanism. 

 

Looking at the boy in front of him, he saw himself. He saw his fear and pain and every little part of himself was reflected in this boy. He felt like he was staring at teenage abused Tony Stark and Tony had truly never been more confused.  He didn’t understand why he saw himself, because there was a problem. And the problem was that Tony Stark was a traumatized little boy, a traumatized teen and a traumatized man. He was a broken husk of a man that went through so much abuse and trauma and hurt in his life and he came out worse for the wear- having to piece himself back together with comfort items and a million sleepless nights. If not for pacifiers and stuffed animals he probably would be dead, because acting like a baby was infinitely better than drinking himself into an early grave. 

 

His life had broken him to the point where he needed this. He needed it so fucking bad. But, how could Peter fucking Parker ever be that broken? Smiling, adorable, amazing, happy, innocent Peter was regressing because of trauma Tony was unaware of. His perfect, amazing boy was hurting and he had no idea what was happening to him. Peter either didn’t trust him enough to know or perhaps didn’t recognize it himself. 

 

Tony reached over and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Hey Pete, I know that you’re scared and tired, because today was really rough for everyone.” Peter turns to stare at him with hauntingly sad eyes and the man continues, “We’re going to have to talk about this some time...but I can tell you’re regressed right now”  

 

Peter looks confused and stumbles over that word for a second, “re-re-re-gressed, wh-wh-at-t-t is-s-s re-gr-ess-ess-e-ed?” 

 

He stammers, but Bucky sushes him as Tony speaks, “As I was saying, you are clearly confused and in a different headspace than you normally are, and that must be really scary kiddo, but we can talk about that later. For now, let’s just snuggle for a little bit and watch a movie or something.”

 

Peter nods his head quickly, his hair ruffling on the couch cushion, and Tony chuckles, “Alright kiddo, what movie do you want to watch?” 

 

“Ummmmmm….ummmmm…….ummmmmm” he looks contiplative, but then yells “Lego Batman!!!” he looks startled by his own voice and quickly backtracks, saying in a smaller voice “ I….um.. I mean Lego Batman pretty pretty please.”

 

“Alright punk, Lego Batman it is.” Bucky responds, having the movie cued up and dimming the lights. 

 

As the film starts to play the three of them snuggle up under the blanket. They don’t have a thought or worry in the world and Peter for the first time in a long time is at piece.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHH man I am so So so sooooOoOoOOO sorry this took so long- like over a month long. Please forgive me, because life was a bitch and I hate that this took so long. I know that this probably is not good enough for all the time I missed, but ya boi is trying. 
> 
> I am making a promise that this story will be either finished or doubled in length by the time school starts for me- and that's a commitment I'm ready and excited to make. 
> 
> Again so sorry and I'm a hoe for reviews and shit so make sure to comment if you like this and I will return from the land of the dead to answer them.
> 
> (also I am seriously regretting my idea for alteration in the chapter titles- cause fuck this is hard)


	8. Murmuring Mentor, Manic Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter get's a ride, tries his best and has a not so fun time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a very dark chapter. Please reread the tags for more specific warnings and pay attention to the added 'suicidal thoughts' tag. There will be no character death in the story (I highkey hate stories like that) but it's still a super important warning.

Peter’s entire body slammed forward and hit the protruding dashboard as the car came slamming to a stop.   
  


“Alright who let Grandpa drive?!??!” Tony proclaimed and tried to grab the wheel. However, he was sitting in the back seat- Peter occupied the passenger side- and when he dived for Bucky his seatbelt painfully locked. 

 

Despite the pain- Peter was used to pain- he giggled when seeing his mentor thwarted.

 

“I hear you short stack…” Mr. Stark grumbled and Peter quickly stopped. His body language going from open to scared in a second, as his body curled in on itself and his breath became shallower. 

 

He knew he was safe here. Bucky and Mr. Stark had spent the afternoon into evening slowly coaxing him out of his shell and the boy felt more open than ever. To be fair this was only after several hours of animated kids movies, sucking his thumb way too much to be socially acceptable, homemade pizza and the best teddy bear in the entire world. Bucky Bear was in fact currently curled up in his lap, protecting him from his final destination. 

 

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts and Peter tried hard not to flinch. His entire body tensed up and he willed himself not to. You are ok. You are ok. YOU ARE OK.

 

“Hey Punk,” Bucky’s voice was low and soothing like hot tea on a cold winter day “we’re here kid.”

 

Peter’s breath felt even more shallow now, like his entire body was being squeezed out of a toothpaste tube.

 

Mr. Stark opened the door on his side and clicked open the lock of his seat belt. He wanted to protest, say that he wasn’t a kid and could do it himself, but today was really long and Peter didn’t have that in him. 

 

His mentor leaned down appearing to grab the stuffed bear on his lap and a bag of his clean clothes- his face couldn’t help but flush bright red when he remembered why they had to be washed, but while he absently messed with Bucky Bear he whispered in Peter’s ear “You don’t have to do this kiddo, say the word and you can come home with us”

 

It was clear the Mr. Stark knew something wasn’t right and he was pleading for Peter to come home with him. And Peter really wanted to come home with him, but he knew he couldn’t actually. 

 

Not only did he need to please Mason, the man couldn't survive without his fucktoy- I MEAN PRINCESS; he also knew that Mr. Stark could never actually want him. No, to Tony he would never be good enough. Always a freak. Always ruined. Always broken. Mason made sure of it.

 

“I promise I’m ok Mr. Stark, I would tell you if something was wrong.”

 

The lie feels like acid on his tongue, but Peter shakes it off. He can’t drag Mr. Stark into this. 

 

“Alright kid, just please call me if you need me” Mr. Stark pleads.

 

Peter nods his head quickly, grabs his bear and the bag of clean clothing, then scrambles out of the car. 

 

Bucky keeps the vehicle in park staring out the window for several seconds, waiting for Peter to go inside the building. Exhaust floats like murky clouds in the evening air and Bucky’s lips are angled down in a frown. 

 

Having no intent in entering the building right away, Peter hastily waves them off and the car peels away from the curb.

 

He wished he was with them, or even told them to stay- but he knows it is best this way. He is always better alone. 

 

Tears prick his eyes and the lights of the apartment building blur together like christmas lights or tiny pinpricks in the fabric of the universe. The boy is feeling quite existential as he slowly trudges his way up the steps and towards his apartment. Clinging onto Bucky Bear and staring at the smudging lights, Peter can’t help but wonder if any of this is worth it. Would it be easier to just disappear. Just disappear or perhaps even die.

 

If he died, he could be with May again. And his Uncle and his parents…. 

 

Fuck. He really wanted to fucking die.

 

As he pushed open the door to his apartment, Peter took automatic notice of the man slumped unconscious on the coach. He was wearing an old, stained Nascar T shirt, ripped jeans and heavy steel toed boots. A late nate show was playing and a beer was knocked over onto the floor. Loud, gruff snores penetrated the air and he felt like his was around a sleeping bear. 

 

One wrong step, one creaking floorboard, on sneeze- would wake the man up and he would be screwed if that happened. 

 

With bated breath, the boy tiptoed across the room. Avoiding broken glass, week old take out chinese containers and pizza boxes, and dirty clothing he slowly made his was towards his room. Towards freedom. 

 

10 more steps.

 

9 more steps.

 

8 more steps.

 

7 mor- a bottle loudly feel from a table he knocked into and came crashing to the floor.

 

For a second he thought he was home free, but the scent of alcohol was potent in his face and gruff hands suddenly were on him. 

 

He fell forward shooting his arms out to catch his fall and crying in pain when they hit the broken glass. 

 

Shards embedded inches into his skin and he writhed on the floor crying and crying and crying and crying.

 

His face erupted in pain and he reached up grabbing his nose- too dazed to see the heavy boots kick him once again. 

 

His fingers crunched at an odd angle and the glass became even more embedded into the palm of his hand. 

 

He was full out sobbing now, begging for mercy- but Mason was having none of it. 

 

He grabbed the boy by his wrist and his entire body was pulled up liek a rag doll.   
  


“Listen here Annie,” he seethed. He was laughing in a manic way and Peter’s heart stopped. He tried to pull away from Mason, but the grip was too tight and he only felt more trapped. Like a feral animal being caught and put down. “Your new name is whore, you are only here for my pleasure and no other reason. You are a whore and sex is the only thing you will ever be used for. No school. No Mr. Stark. No sunshine- no nothing-” Giant alcohol scented globs of spit were flying as the man raved and Peter was terrified. The boy was crying and begging and screaming, doing anything he could to get the other to listen. 

 

A slap cracked against his face, “SHUT THE FUCK UP” He screamed and Peter quickly complied, whimpering and bowing his head in submission. Mason sadistic grinned and ran his calloused hands through Peter’s hair- causing him to flinch violently.    
“Now, now whore..” he said sushing the terrified boy, “we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either you listen to me like a good little bitch, or a chain you to my bed and you can stay there until all  your bones break and you starve to death. Just a whore waiting to be fucked, and nothing else” Peter shivered and franticly shook his head, he didn’t want that. No. Non. No. No. NOOOO. 

 

Mason countiend to laugh like a lantic and pet the frightened boys hair, “Alright then sweetheart, are you going to be a good or whore or a bad whore???”

  
  


“good. good. good.” he repeated over and over like a broken cassette. 

 

“Alrighty then, up you go” Mason said, pulling the boy up- pushing glass further into Peter’s palms in the process. 

 

“You’re sleeping with me tonight”

 

He then pulled Peter with him, and got back on the couch- locking him in to his hold with a death grip and turning towards the TV like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t cradling a broke boy- a broken whore to his chest. Like he wasn’t feeling tears and snot soak is shirt from his terrified prisoner, and like there wasn’t a person losing their humanity in front of his eyes. 

 

Peter tried hard to stay awake, he wanted nothing to do with Mason. He wanted Bucky Bear and real Bucky and Mr. Stark. He wanted his family, his saviors. But all he had now was the scent of a dirty t shirt being pressed into his face and the overall scent of alcohol heavy in the air. All he had was a few probably broken fingers and glass buried deep in his bloody hands. All he had was a crushed spirit and absolutely no hope. As he fell asleep curled into the chest of his abuser, he couldn’t help but wish that he had killed himself when he had a chance. Because he knew, whatever was about to happen was worse than hell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is now an appropriate time to say sorry and/or please don't kill me??????


	9. Wandering Wishes, Wrecked Wrist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up, feels disconnected and hopes for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for this chapter: SEVERE abuse, suicidal thoughts and ideation, bad gender dysphoria and just overall fucked shit that you should not read unless you're in an okish place. Do NOT take this warning lightly.

When Peter next woke up, his heart felt lodged in his throat. His lungs felt full of molasses and his brain was floating in it’s fuzzy space. All he wanted to do was roll over and go back to sleep, or maybe take a lavender scented bubble bath or cuddle his soft stuffed bear; but a thick , heavy hand was pressed into his back- resting haphazardly above his ass- and his chapped lips grazed against dirty t-shirt and chest hair. Everytime the man underneath him would exhale his breath, the boy would bounce slightly and flinch away from the man’s imposing body. Peter felt trapped like a scared animal, he wanted to twist out of the man’s grasp and free himself. He wanted to run away- but he was stuck. Stuck pinned to the chest of his abuser. Stuck in this crappy life. His crappy life.

 

Suddenly, there was a stream of hot breath tickling his ear and the stench of too much beer was heavy in his nose. His senses were overwhelmed drastically and his head violently lurched away from the hot air. He wanted to calm down, feel less overwhelmed and trapped. But a hand reached out and bruisingly caught his jaw- forcing him to stay still. His breath grew shallower as he became overwhelmed once again. He hated this feeling of being trapped and especially with someone who scared him as much as Mason did.  The hand on his ass caressed his naked skin and Peter cried out in fear, confusion and pain. He hated being touched like this. He wasn’t supposed to be touched like a piece of meat. He was a human, not an object and certainly not some sort of sex toy. 

 

The man was staring at him now, his eyes were wild and feral like an animal. His teeth sharp and glinting, his hair sweaty and sticking up at all angles. He looked dangerous and caught in his hold, unable to move- Peter was terrified. 

 

“Now, now- where do you think you’re going sweetheart?” Mason growled in his ear, the scent of beer heavier and the grip on his jaw tightening painfully. His senses felt like the active side of a wire- electric, firey and sparking. 

 

Peter was shaking like a leave or someone wet and shivering after a shower in the winter. His entire body was twitching and trying to escape the grasp on his jaw and the arm resting on his ass. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest and the boy squirmed fearfully. However, Mason’s grip was so firm that seconds quickly turned into minutes. He felt like there was a clock in his head, ticking to the beat of his out of control heart. The second hand loud and menacing, counting down the time until something horrible happened. It seemed like some sort of trivial countdown of his livelihood, but the apprehension was too much. He needed something- anything to happen.  

 

Peter finally managed to twist himself out of the strong grasp, maneuvering around the man trying to catch his hips and force him back down onto him. But, he needed to escape and he landed painfully in a heap of tangled limbs on the floor with a loud thump. Strangely this pain felt good. It felt like an escape. The other pain felt bad because he wasn’t in control of it. He was simply the victim of somebody else cruel treatment. But, when he could control the pain it felt amazing. He could finally physically feel all the pain pent up in his head. It was refreshing to finally feel something on his own terms, even though it only for a moment and a means of escaping Mason.

 

When he was sprawled on the hardwood floor, he automatically tried to scramble away. But a hand darted forward roughly grabbing his wrist and stopping him from escaping and running to hide. 

 

Mason peeled himself off of the couch, like a predator stalking his prey. His eyes looked stormy and feral and he loomed over the scared boy, tightly grasping his wrist and seething like a pot that was about to boil over.

 

Peter’s face felt red hot, tears fell like trails of warm liquid etched into his porcelain face. His voice was high and squeaky as he begged and begged and begged and begged to be let go. 

 

“Please..please….please…….please” he pleaded over and over and over and over again. He wanted to leave, he wanted to be gone. Gone from here. Gone from this existence. He wanted Mr. Stark and Bucky and his bear and bubble baths and whacky shirts with science puns and Star Wars Movie premieres and painting and fast food milkshakes and tipping street performers on the subway. He wanted every little nuance of his life back. He wanted to be a regular teenager again, a regualr kid again. But, he was stuck in this life. He was stuck with bruises and stained bed sheets and wetting the bed and feeling panic at every noise. He was stuck in this life and he resented that above anything else. He would never be a regular teenager again and he would never escape his sad, fucked up life. 

 

Mason was now squatting over him menacingly. The man’s shirt grazed the boys head and Peter violently flinched away from the unwanted contact. He wanted no contact with Mason whatsoever, but one grubby hand was quickly clamped over his mouth and the other one was still roughly clutching his wrist. Mason’s hand felt like a shackle he could never escape. A metaphorical tie to this moment, to this life. Just another thing he couldn’t escape. Another reminder that he was no longer a regular teenager. 

 

“now , now Annie- I thought you were going to be a good whore.” Mason chuckled darkly, sneering “but I guess we all go back on our words one way or another.”

 

His voice was icey and smooth like glass, “ I was really rooting for you to figure it out and be a good whore sweetheart, but now you’ve gone and fucked up and I’m the bad guy who has to punish you.” he chuckled, “let’s be real I would've punished you anyways Annie, whores always get what they deserve.” 

 

A sadistic smile flashed across his face and Peter tried to scramble back further, whimpering and afraid of what would inevitably happen to him. He was terrified that Mason was going to do something horrible to him and he just wanted to prove that he didn’t need to be punished. If he was good he wouldn’t be punished, right? He didn’t want to be punished. No, he wanted to be good. He needed to be good. Good for Mason. But, the thing was he wasn’t good, in fact he never was and never would be good. He would always be as shitty as he ever was. And here he was after being bad and even though he knew he was as shitty as he ever was- the consequences still managed to terrify him. But he had to own up to being bad, and being bad came with consequences. So, he had to face the consequences and something told him he wasn't going to like them. 

 

The breath was knocked out of Peter as Mason’s hand twisted suddenly and sharply. His coy laughter and Peter’s screams filled the air- like a frantic and somber melody. His wrist was on fire, the bone was scarily contorted at an odd and almost unbelievable angle and the flesh around it was limp and clammy. It was terrifying to feel that much pain and to look at something so mangled and in staring at it, Peter couldn’t recognize himself anymore. This was the worst pain he had felt in so long and his felt like his brain was leaving his body. He felt like he was floating now. He felt like he was sitting upside down on the ceiling. He could see Mason looming over him and oh god- he could see himself. He looked tiny and frail. He looked sick. He looked like a girl. He looked terrified. He looked like he wanted to scream. He looke- Mason pulled him up off of the floor and Peter felt like he was crashing from the ceiling back into his body. His wrist was trapped under the man's grasp and Peter was screaming again- he wasn’t sure if it was due to the further contact to his mangled limb or the starling feeling of his being returning from the ceiling to his body.

 

He hated that he couldn’t stay floating somewhere on the ceiling. He hated that he had to actually feel the pain and be present in his body. He craved the experience of simply observing himself from a distance rather than having to feel everything so surely and horribly in his body. It struck him, that he really just hated Mason. He hated that he could do this to him, snap his bones like toothpicks and easily reduced him to a sobbing mess. He hated the power the man had over him. It made him feel weak, like some sort of victim. He hated being a victim. A part of him knew that really is victim, but he still hates the thought of being so helpless- so weak. As Spider-Man, he saves the victims. He swoops in and helps people escape their lives, whether through beating their attackers or abusers or simply helping someone out on a bad day. He is the hero, but not in his own life. No, in his life he can’t escape and he can’t protect himself from the ones hurting him. In his life he is the one who needs saving, not the savior. But how could he possibly save people if he is exactly the same as them?? How could he be the hero when he is no more than a victim. How could he pretend to help when he is nothing more than a little abused trans boy?? He hates that thought. The thought of being helpless, being weak. It pumps venom in his veins. It makes his skin crawl. It makes him want to vomit. 

 

Mason now has one hand painfully clutching the poor boys broken wrist and the other is dangling seemingly non threateningly by his side. However he is a threat as he forcefully draggs Peter across the floor towards the kitchen. Peter tries to dig his heels into the hardwood to stop himself from being moved. But the boy is tiny in comparison to the man dragging him and Peter winds up being bodily dragged across the floor against his will. Maybe Peter should give up trying because he always winds up doing what Mason wants in the end.

 

When they reach the next room, Mason drags him over to the counter and pushes his ass firmly onto the floor. He snarls at the boy not to move from the position, but regardless of the command he still does not let go of the broken wrist- not trusting Peter to listen to him. With his other, free hand Mason rifles through the junk drawer in the kitchen. His thick fingers pushed aside unpaid bills, broken rubber bands and crumpled up neon green post it notes, searching for something mysterious and unknown. He frantically pushes through the entire drawer, uplifting every single object until he finally finds the object of the search.

 

Mason looked massively pleased with himself at finding the object, and Peter cranes his neck to get a look. But, he can’t see it only see a glint in Mason’s eyes and a smirk dancing across his mouth. Slowly and tauntingly, the man dangled a roll of shiny silver duct tape in front of his captors eyes. Peter’s nostrils flare fearfully and his head shakes. He doesn’t want to come in contact with the silvery tape. No. No. No. nononon. Nonononononononono. Peter does not want to be confined. He can’t be confined. He can’t fucking do this. This isn’t fair. He can’t. No. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t do this. 

  
  


“Now now, none of that whore.” Mason snarls at the terrified boy.

 

The loud sound of tape being pulled back fills the mostly quiet room. With every tear of the adhesive, Peter shivers and shakes his head now. But Mason doesn’t listen and it is now being attached to his face. He starts by pressing it the edge of his face, near his ear, and then rolls it over and over and over again around Petre’s hair. He can feel it sticking to his hair and he winces when it tickles the edge of his nose, threatening to block of the last source of hair he has access to. 

 

Once ithe tape has gone around his entire head three times, Mason rips the edge connecting the tape on the face to that on the roll- leaving a terrified boy shaking and screaming into the tape for help. He couldn’t be heard though, the tape is too thick and that terrifies him. He was stuck here, tape on his mouth and broken wrist until someone came to save him or Mason eventually took it off.

 

The man squeezed the boy's broken wrist, the fragments of bone crunching painfully under his grip. “Just be glad I didn’t tape your little wrists together girl,” He gets right up in Peter’s face, spit flying everywhere and snarling like an animal, “I still could Annie,” he says tutting his lips, “so you better shut the fuck up, keep your little girly head down and learn your place as a fucking whore. You are nothing more than an object for me to fuck when I’m horny and you better get that through your dumb little head.”  

 

With that he drags the crying (yet silenced) boy back across the hardwood floor towards Peter’s room. His naked body catches on the splintery wooden floor, but Mason doesn’t care in the slightest. He just keeps on going, dragging the boy to his room. To his doom.

 

When they reach the room, Mason slams open the door. The hinges creak menacingly, hazy light bounces over the stained and rumpled comforter and a layer of dust is disturbed by the movement. Peter wants nothing more than to lay in the bed, regardless of the stained bed sheet. Strangely, he wishes he could go back to the days where all he worried about where those ominous red and white stains smearing his comforter. Blood and cum stains painted a sort of abstract crime- he could lose himself in that abstractness. But now it was no longer abstract, it was so so fucking real now. He could no longer ignore fading cuts and bruises, he now has a broken wrist and tape over his mouth. He wishes he could contain that pain to his bed. He could go to school and see Ned and work in the lab with Mr. Stark and do anything normal- anything at all. He used to be able to escape. Even when the shitty things happened, he could act like they were his fault and simply contain them to his bed- his life with Mason. But now, his life was the pain. He couldn’t escape because this was his entire fucking life now.

 

Peter was plunged into darkness as he was roused from his thoughts at the closing of his closet door. The once scary prospect of being locked into the small space by Mason, now somewhat calmed him. He was terrified of the fact that his fears had morphed into his safety. It was a monster that had morphed in front of his eyes, out of control. It was like his feet were stuck to the ground in a forest fire. He was a comet plummeting to the earth, gorgeous at first, but in reality firey and dangerous- spinning out of control until he finally crashed and self destructed. He wanted nothing more than to self destruct, but for now he was stuck in his closet.

 

He clutched his broken wrist limply to his chest, hissing in pain as he cradled it to himself. He needed medical attention badly, the lack of food basically killed his healing factor (for what seemed like good) and Peter was sure a crushed wrist wasn’t going to heal by itself.  If he was with Mr. Stark he would probably drag him to see Dr. Banner to get it check out and then give him ice cream for being a ‘good kiddo’. But, he didn’t have Mr. Stark here and he would have to deal with this on his own- self medicating on too much crying and holding it close to his naked torso. He would need help eventually, he wasn’t stupid, but hopefully this would help for now. He really needed this to work for now. It was going to work for now.

 

Using his other hand he reached up and pulled an old dress to him, crumpling it up and rolling it into a ball to use for a pillow. He really wanted to put on clothing, to cover himself up just a little but. But in reality, his nudity no longer bothered him much and it wasn’t like putting on an old dress (the only article of clothing available to him in the closet) was an option. Dysphoria and a broken wrist were definitely a bitch- he would rather die than wear a dress and there was no way he could get the garment over his wrist. So he would definitely settle for at least a pillow to make himself more comfortable. He needed to feel comfortable, because he knew how long he was actually going to be here. An hour, two hours, a day, a week, till he died. He actually didn’t give a shit at this point, he just wanted his wrist to heal- his life to heal. Being ok felt like a ship on the horizon, a setting sun or a bee drifting from flower to flower. It felt so far away, an almost unachievable goal.  But, he was going to work towards it. He was going to get better. He needed to get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all this took me literally a month to write and I still only got 3k words of meh writing. I just want to get to the comfort, but like that can't happen without a plot line of severe angst daofhoeiufdhgaufhgoadisfhgoaisgh


	10. Waning Whimpers, Worthless Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is wakes up, is dragged from his only sense of safety and has very very very sad thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for this chapter: SEVERE abuse and detailed sexual assault, suicidal thoughts and ideation, self esteem issues and mentions of gender dysphoria. 
> 
> I think this is one of the roughest, most detailed chapters to date- so please take this warning very seriously.

What felt like several days later, but in reality only several hours of time had elapsed, Peter was being bodily dragged out of the dark closet by his boney ankles. He tried to dig his hands into any tiny crevice in the wood. He desperately wanted to grab onto anything to keep him in place, because the boy was terrified of being pulled from the relative safety of the tiny space. He wasn’t ready to face Mason again, he wanted to stay in his tiny little closet all alone and relatively safe from the horrors of the outside world. 

 

Peter’s current state was quite concerning. The boy was severely malnourished, injuries beyond belief. His pale skin was pulled tight over his brittle bones, bruises and little cuts marked every inch of his entire naked flesh. Some were self inflicted, but far more power from the menacing man pulling him from the closet.  

 

He used to be stronger than Mason. When he was healthy, the boy had unimaginable super strength. However being this undernourished and injured, had severe negative effects on the boy. He was currently nothing compared to Mason’s strength and the boy was easily pulled from the closet like a rag doll, or a weed being torn from soil. 

 

His ankles burned under the man’s firm grip and Peter flailed, trying to scream out for help. Their little Queens apartment had thin walls, so maybe someone could hear him when he screamed. Maybe they would come swooping in to save him. They we take him far far away from this wretched place and the boy would never have to return again.  

 

But less than a second into the boy’s scream, before it could truly rip passed his chapped lips and alert anyone, the man had grabbed his broken wrist in a tight grasp. Using the leverage, the man pulled Peter into a standing position and the other rough hand clamped over the boy’s half parted mouth. 

 

Mason leaned forward, his hair brushing against Peter’s ears, whispering menacingly in the boy’s ear. “Don’t you even fucking think about it you little whore.”

 

Peter whimpered around the fingers on his mouth. He was terrified out of his mind. He didn’t want to be here. He didn't want to be here. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. He wanted to leave right fucking now. 

 

But Mason was having none of it. Attempting to stop Peter’s sound, he used his other hand to sharply pull the long strands of hair at the nape of Peter’s neck. The hair and back of his neck burned painfully and his entire head jerked back at the heavy hand pulling at him. 

 

Peter tried to yelp and whimper once again but Mason roughly yanked on his hair again, forcing the boy’s head even further back. It burned like he was caught in a fire. He could feel clumps of the strands being ripped from his scalp with an excruciating burning sensation. But the boy refused to make another sound for fear of Mason pulling more of his hair out, or perhaps hurting him in some worse and unimaginable way. 

 

“Good job, whore.” Mason cooed at his captive condescendingly, letting the meaty fingers in his loosen. However, he didn’t let the hand drop and rather ran his fingers through the hair he had previously been pulling with a fake sense of affection. The pads of Mason’s fingers brushed against Peter’s neck, causing the boy to feel natuous, hot and cold at the same time. He wanted the man’s hands away from his neck, because he did not trust Mason and was terrified the hands would stop petting or even stop pulling, and rather resign to strangling Peter instead. 

 

”Now I don’t want to hear another fucking sound out of you Annie. Learn your place as a whore and this will be far easier than you. I’ll treat you like one of those fancy prostitutes from Vegas or something, instead of dollar crackhead whore you really are.” Mason chuckled to himself, “You’re not even good enough for that Annie, no one would pay even a dollar when you use that sweet mouth of yours for free.”

 

Mason got right up into his face, the stench of beer was heavy in the air. “Resist me and you will be punished. And trust me sweetheart,” his teeth were bared like a feral animal, “you don’t want to be punished, because it will not be pleasant punishment.” 

 

The man squeezed Peter’s broken wrist in his fist, grinning like a maniac. “Your little girl bones break so easily whore, I wouldn’t want to mess with me if I were you Annie.” 

 

With that, the man used the grasp on Peter’s broken wrist to push the boy onto the bed. He stood above Peter, watching his skinny frame bounce several times on the worn spring mattress. He was face down, his limbs splayed in all directions and his nose pressed right up against a cum stain on the sheets. He grimaced at the stain and Peter flailed for a second. He was trying to fling his body off the side of the bed. But before Peter could manage to move, Mason laid his entire, huge body on top of Peter’s small frame. It was clear that the man was trying to keep the boy from moving, but Peter flailed his limbs once again. He tried and tried and tried to gain enough moment to escape the man. But he failed and failed and failed and fail. He was trapped. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. 

 

“ENOUGH” Mason screamed. Using a single hand he spun Peter’s entire tiny body onto his back and pinned his wrists tightly together above his head. The other hand moved to unbutton his own pants, pull down the zipper and push his underwear down and out of the way. 

 

Peter gagged as the man’s thick, half hard penis popped out of the stained underwear. The boy shook his head back and forth frantically. He did not want this. He did not want this. He did not want this. No. No. No. No. No. He did not fucking want this. No. Please. Please. Please. No. No.Please. Please. NO. NO. NO. NO. 

 

The man’s heavy body surged forward, his thick hips rested like deadbolts on Peter’s delicate collar bones. The boy thought the fragile bones might snap underneath the weight. His entire body would collapse into itself and he would be a goner. 

 

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you sucking on your fingers recently little girl…” Mason’s mouth was close to his ear. His hair stood on end, goosebumps tore across his pale skin and the boy shivered at his whispers. “Probably preparing to be a good little whore for your daddy, aren’t you Annie? Ready to suck daddy’s dick like a good baby girl? Ready to show daddy a good time sweetheart?”

 

Mason used one hand to pry Peter’s mouth open. He ran his large, sweaty fingers over Peter’s tongue. “You’re such a pretty little whore Annie and I love that you care enough to practice for your daddy. What a good sweetheart.” Mason smirked, knowing the boy was not truly practicing, but enjoying taunting his helpless captive nonetheless. 

 

He continued to run his finger over Peter’s tongue, assaulting his mouth with his something as innocent as fingers. The pad of thumb scraped against the roof of his mouth, pressing at the ridges with an unbearable amount of pressure. 

 

Peter tried to speak around the fingers, attempting to plead with the man. But as Mason felt the boy’s tongue moving with his garbled speech, he pressed his nails down. Drawing blood from little half moon crescents. 

 

“I thought you were going to be good Annie, but I guess that is too much to ask for.” He mused, dragging his nails over Peter’s tongue as a he slowly removed the fingers from his mouth. “But like always whore, you had to screw it up.” 

 

Mason pulled back from his ear, waiting no longer than a second before the man stuffed his disgustingly large penis into Peter’s half open mouth, “Now this little girl,” he started, as the tip entered his mouth. “is what you should really be sucking on princess.” He thrust his hips forward quickly. Peter gagged, large trails of spit and a small amount of blood dripping down his chin and onto his naked torso. “Don’t ever forget it whore, you are only a hole. A hole for me to fuck whenever I want. A fucktoy for your daddy to use whenever he pleases.”

 

The man continued to fuck the boy’s mouth without mercy. His balls slapped against the bottom of Peter’s mouth and chin every second. He was ruthlessly leaving no time for the boy to breathe, rather laughing when he choked on the long shaft. 

 

“What a sweet little princess” The man cooed when Peter’s tears dripped onto the skin of his Penis “Crying perfect little tears for your daddy, what a good little whore.

 

Peter wanted to bite the man, hitt him, force him to stop pinning the boy to the bed and force him to leave him alone. But he felt helpless, the fuzziness was creeping back into his brain once again and he just wanted to give up.

 

Peter let his fingers run over the soft fabric of the sheet. He cringed when he felt crusting dried semen and blood under his fingers, but otherwise enjoyed the feeling of soft fabric under his fingers The fuzziness in his mind was coming on fast now. It felt like there was a cloud in his brain. However, maybe just maybe, he could lose himself in it if he tried hard enough. And maybe it would be a good thing to get lost in the fuzziness. Maybe he could finally feel free. Feel safe and happy and finally free. 

 

The boy felt something heavy in his mouth, the fuzziness wouldn’t quite let him remember what it was, but he knew that he liked sucking in things. He knew that when his brain felt fuzzy, sucking on his fingers always made him feel happier. 

 

So the boy gave the object in his mouth an experimental suck, hoping to garner the same sense of comfort sucking on his fingers provided him with. However, when he sucked on the object in his mouth it only made him gag. It was too large, salty and huge on his delicate tongue. It didn’t make him feel safe, it terrified him. Terrified him. Terrified him. Terrified him. 

 

Tears pooled out of Peter’s eyes like waterfalls, splashing down his skin and onto Mason. “Don’t cry little girl.” He tried to sush the crying boy, but Peter was too confused to understand. His fuzzy brain could make sense of what was happening, of why this scary man was calling him or a girl or why he felt so out of control. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know what was happening. 

 

The man ran the pad of his thumb under Peter’s eye, catching tears as they fell. “You know Annie, I really love you sweetheart.” He whispered to the boy. 

 

Peter stared up at the man, trying to make any sense of the situation. The back of his mind was screaming at the boy that this man was dangerous, that he should get away from him as soon as possible. But the more dominant part of his mind was trying to sooth him and remind himself that this man said that he loved him. Maybe he was just confused about the whole girl thing. Maybe he had just screwed it up. 

 

With a childlike innocence, Peter quickly nodded his head in response. He knew the man loved him. Loved him. Loved him. Loved him. Peter was loved. He was loved. He was loved. He was loved.

 

Peter’s entire body went limp as the man pulled his pulsating penis from the boy’s mouth and ejactuled all over his pale skin. Giant gobs of cum stuck to his dainty eyelashes, dripped down his marred skin and mixed with the blood and spit already dripping down his face. 

 

Peter felt snapped back to reality like a bucket of ice water was poured over his head. The fuzziness was gone and he felt disgusted at the thoughts his own mind had tricked him into thinking, the feelings falsified within his own being. 

 

He despised the universal feelings of being out of control he had been feeling recently. He hated feeling different, feeling smaller and isolated from all the things that made Peter Parker, Peter Parker. 

 

He hated that he had no control over it. Whenever it happened, it was like a light switched off and he was plunged into darkness. He was still there, present in his own mind. However he was not the same Peter he usually was, rather he felt like three or four year old Peter.  But rather than the sweet child he had actually been, he felt warped, vulnerable, clingy and abused.

 

Three years old had been before most of the terrible things had happened in his life. His parents were still alive Uncle Ben and Aunt May were a happy couple that didn’t even know the boy yet. But now all those people, the people who loved him the most in life, were dead and he was caught feeling completely and utterly alone.  

 

The death of his loved ones sadly only scraped the surface of the trauma the boy had faced in his life. Skip Westcott the babysitter from hell plagued his early childhood. They had been able to sleep in his own room for months. Rather spending every night curled between his Aunt and Uncle under their giant cosy quilt, in their bed that felt larger than the ocean. 

 

As soon as he began to feel even the tiniest bit functional after Skip, a gender identity crisis was on the horizon. Luckily enough, Peter’s Aunt and Uncle had been supportive. The two had unconditionally loved him, however they were a poor couple from Queens and they couldn’t provide their nephew with any of the expense hormones or surgery they wanted to. So Peter started middle school as the bullied trans. He kept his head down for years, his eyes scanning the ground to see the next foot ready to trip him. 

 

The boy was used to pain because his life had been full of it. The scars on his body told a story of someone who had had a sad life, someone who was a survivor of years of trauma. It made sense that his mind was finally starting to crack the smallest bit. Trauma tended to do strange things to the body and he was exception.

 

However, he hated that this was happening because it felt like his body was completely betraying him. It felt like he no longer had the last thing important to him, control over his actions and thoughts. It made him feel vulnerable and stupid, naive like a child whose innocence had not yet been stolen. But perhaps it was for the best, his innocence had been stolen nearly a decade ago, gone before he could have a childhood. Maybe this was a do over, a second shot at everything he missed.  

 

The man next to him grunted, squeezing Peter’s broken wrist under his heavy hand. “Do you understand your new role in life now, sweetheart?” He asked condesingly. 

 

Peter refused to answer the man. But the words hit deep in his being, and the boy knew that he truly did understand. This was his new role in life now. He was only here for Mason’s benefit, a toy from him to fuck whenever he was in the mood, and to throw away when he was done. If Mason didn’t want him anymore, he would truly have no value left. He would be 100% completely worthless, because his only role in life was to be Mason’s whore. He had no other purpose than serving the disgusting, pig of a man who had ruined his life. This was all he had, Mason’s whore or death. 

 

The line between those two options seemed far too tantalizingly thin. Death called out to him like a siren, trying to convince the boy to finally give in to the depression clouding his mind and join the land of the undead. Join his parents and his Aunt and Uncle on the other side of the veil of death.

 

Part of him truly did want to die. He wanted to join the ones he loved and finally feel a sense of peace. But the other half of him refused to leave this world. If he left this world, in a strange sense the boy would be even more behind. The after life was a mystery and this world already was home to those who loved. 

 

If he died, would he be leaving Mr.Stark behind. Leaving Bucky and Ned and MJ and all the friends he loved so dearly. He didn’t want to leave if it meant he would never see them again, until they too finally passed the veil of death and joined the boy on the other side. 

 

He wasn’t ready to leave them all. Rather, he craved more time with the ones he loved. He wanted to watch movies and drink hot chocolate and dance in the rain. He wanted real, unconditional love. He wanted happiness and crying tears of joy and cuddling under big, cosy blankets. He wanted to be happy again, he needed to be happy again. 

 

Currently, it felt like he was never going to be happy again. He was stuck in this shitty life, until he died and perhaps that death would be a sweet reprieve from his current sad fate. It would let him finally escape. 

 

Laying on his stained sheets next to the repulsive man, Peter couldn’t help but feel helpless. The cum and blood and spit dripping down his face made the boy felt resigned to his sad fate. This was his new life now and he was fucking stuck here. Stuck as a fucktoy, stupid little girl. girl. girl. girl. He was a fucking girl. 

He was Annie, a whore and daddy’s little princess. He was never ever ever going to have a life outside of this. He was stuck. Fucking stuck forever. He was a whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. A girl and a whore. A girl and a freak. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak.

 

Stupid worthless little girl. He hated being a girl. Hated. Hated. Hated. He didn't want to be a girl. He couldn't be a girl. 

 

He was worthless.

 

He was worthless. 

 

He was worthless. 

 

Worthless. 

 

Worthless. 

 

Worthless. 

 

Worthless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I am sorry I have been gone for so long, life had been hectic and on top of regular life I was actually working on a 60k+ word fic for the IronDad big bang (it hasn't been posted yet, but I'll make sure to hype it up when it is because it's similar to this yet way different and way better writing !!) Thank you for all the love and support folks have been commenting despite my several month hiatus. If it makes you feel warm and fuzzy, I currently have two more chapters of this fic already written !! They will be posted within the next week and a half or so, but they are all finished and ready at this point. I just wanna space out updates, in order to no spam and hype every chapter up as much as possible. 
> 
> As always, I am a slut for comments so please, please leave me a little something. I read everything and try to reply to as much as I can !! 
> 
> Was this worth all the wait ???????????? Probably not and y'all probably hate me for making it so sad, but still let me know cause it is definitely 110% appreciated


	11. Captive Closet, Chaotic Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter self reflects, is very sad and gets a welcome surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for this chapter: suicidal thoughts and ideation, intense self hate and gender dysphoria, self harming behaviors, internalized gender dysphoria.

Peter’s eye’s cracked open in little slits, frantically trying to adjust to the darkness of the closet. Mason must have placed the boy back in his little cell of confinement after the boy had passed out. He dragged his nails across his thighs, his upper legs and the bottom of his chin, peeling back sticky dried urine, semen and blood. Peter knew it was a joke to think the man might’ve cleaned him off before dumping him in the closet once again, but he still felt utterly used and disgusting. Mason appeared to not be joking with the whole ‘whore’ thing. It made him feel disgusting, but at least the boy was finally alone now. 

 

Shadows danced and darted in jerky movements across the space where the floor and ceiling met. They looked like demons, pitch forks thrusting into the air, or perhaps ghosts taunting him. They were beckoning him toward death, like welcoming and old friend to a new life. The boy currently felt like one of the undead, so he embraced the little shadows dancing across his walls like ghosts with his entire being. 

 

The boy scrunched his eyes closed once again, letting the skin tighten and pull like a tense draw string. He tried to keep them closed for as long as possible, block out the little shadows and simply the world on a whole. However, it was harder than it seemed and when the deep brown orbs flitted open for the second time, the shadows in front of him seemed to blur. It looked like a paint brush had been run through half drying watercolors, mixing the colors together into one large blur.   
  


Closing his eyes time and time again, the image in front of him constantly shifted. Fading in and out, the little demon like creatures seemed to disappear and reappear at the blink of an eye. Perhaps this was a sign that the boy was caught in some sort of lucid dream, or simply hallucinating or caught in a reality separate from this one entirely. 

 

After the first several hours of fading in and out of consciousness after presumably being dumped back into the closet again, the boy had lost all sense of time. Seconds bleed into minutes, into hours, into presumably the first daybreak of the new week. However, Peter never saw the daybreak, only seeing the little demons dancing across the walls of the dark closet, and rather could only count time in little things. The hunger pains tearing through his weak body like a thunderstorm. The throbbing of his stubbornly broken wrist, the boy was too malnourished and dehydrated for his enhanced healing to actually be working. The tear of thousands of little pieces of hair from his head, when after hours of struggling he had finally managed to remove the many layers of tape from around his head (afterwards the boy had celebrated when he felt like he could finally breathe deeply again). The feeling of his body uncontrollably urinating, once in out of a sense of fear and once out of pure necessity. The liquid had been dark and concentrated, carrying the telltale stench of sickly, dehydrated urine. Whether or not the Mason, or even Peter admitted it, the boy was being dehydrated to death. A few more days in here and the boy would actually pass into the world of the undead. Bodies weren’t made to lack water, food or any nourishment for how long Peter had gone without. Peter would not be able to hold onto this life much longer. He was too frail, too sick, too helpless. 

 

He was a lost cause, shut into a closet scared and beaten and broken. Left there until he was mercifully let out of the closet by his own abuser, or until he eventually died. Maybe if he died, justice would than finally be served. Bodies weren’t easy things to hide and maybe, just maybe, someone would catch Mason in the act of trying to hide the lifeless body. Or perhaps, they would stumble upon his body like the dirty little skelton in the closet his existence currently was. 

 

If strangers stumbled into these situations, Mason would hopefully be arrested and serve jail time. He would finally be held accountable for all the hurt he had caused the poor boy. 

 

But the only way that would happen, the only way Mason would ever be held truly accountable, would be if Peter died. If Peter pressed charges and went to court, they would never believe him. No one ever listened to stupid little trans boys. Boys with no money, no living relatives, no hope. The closet he had was Mr. Stark (and now Bucky in a strange sense), and he doubted they would actually fight for him. It wasn’t like they cared. Right? Right? They couldn’t care. No. No. No. No one fucking cared about Peter Parker. No one cared if he lived and died and no would miss him if he was gone. 

 

Maybe, he should just die. Life was exhausting and he wanted to give up completely. Death would be a welcome escape and perhaps in the end it would be worth it. He was too tired and to keep on going. To exhausted by this life. His life was the cost of justice. He was Spider-Man after all, he cared about justice more than any other value in the world. It was a moral rock for the boy, a value he would never sacrifice. In some strange sense, the boy would die if it meant there was justice. 

 

The musings in his head felt like toxic fumes swirling in his brain. Consuming every thought, they poisoned little flower buds in his mind and his want for things to go well, for him to be a thriving member of this world. 

 

He used to care, but the toxic darkness was too all consuming. It sucked every little bit of joy and hope up, leaving him to fall into the darkness of black holes and the world of the undead. 

 

Sitting in the darkness, thoughts screaming in his brain, the boy wasn’t sure how long had truly passed. If this was the first daybreak, or perhaps the second or third daybreak. For all he knew, the boy was already dead and existing in some cruel form of an afterlife. This shoebox of a closet was already his own personal hell, but the boy had no idea what he did to deserve it. The boy wasn’t particularly religious, religion often hating him for simply existing, but no punishment on earth could truly be this malicious and cruel.

 

‘Perhaps all LGBT people actually did go to hell’, the boy mused to himself. Queer people sure seemed to have the shittest life situations. They were the most at risk, the most disadvantaged, hurt, bullied and abused.

 

He chuckled to himself darkly, further breaking the heavy silence in the small room with his hoarse laugh. It was strange to hear his voice after all this time. He felt disconnected from it, like his body and voice were two separate people. He listened to the the high pitches, scratchy from disuse. To the inflection of his tone and the dry whimper at the end of his almost sardonic laugh.  

 

He sounded like a fucking girl. The pitch of his voice far higher than other boys his age. He didn’t recognize himself in the soft, feminine sound of his voice. He felt like he was an entire other person. He felt like the voice he was hearing belonged to Annie, and Peter Parker was simply a bystander on this whole experience. Peter Parker was not locked in a closet, his body did not ache and he was not on the brink of death. Peter Parker was the person he eventually would be when all the hurt in his life eventually faded away, and the boy could finally be happy once again. Peter Parker was the boy who liked to curl up on the couch with Mr. Stark and watch animation movies. Peter Parker was the boy loved comic books and science puns and eating double chocolate chip cookies and warm flannels. He loved his family, even though he was the last surviving member. He loved stealing Clint’s blankie and cuddling Bucky Bear and feeling warm and safe and protected. He wanted a hug, but he wasn’t fucking going to get a hug. He wasn’t going to get a hug now and if he died, he would never get a hug again. He would never see Mr. Stark or Bucky or his teddy bear or his blankie, because he would be fucking dead.  

 

Feelings of dread and self hate bubbled to the surface of his sickly, naked flesh. He hated that even within such a compromising moment he was riddled with negative thoughts. Even laying naked and afraid, starving to death in a literal closet, he found reason after reason after reason to hate himself. He would spend hours on end picking apart his own masculinity; finding every possible reason to hate himself. 

 

It was quite sad to think that in this moment he was more focused on the rise and fall of his breasts, than his broken wrist that was throbbing intensely in pain. He was more focused on the curve of his hips, than his stomach aching and sinking in at the middle. The undeniable femininity of his naked body was more upsetting to him than all his injuries, because it felt like a final death sentence. It felt helpless, like he truly was never going to be the man he knew he was. 

 

He had no control over his body, both the good nor the bad. He couldn’t fix the way he looked, or felt inside, or the way he appeared to others. It seems easy to tell yourself that you are a man. Remind yourself over and over and over again that you are masculine and worthy of love and deserve all good things in the world. But it’s harder to actually believe those things fully and entirely.

 

Peter could pretend to be in charge of his thoughts, in reality the boy was out of control most of the time and his thoughts were rampant. But he had no control over what others thought of him. He was no mind reader, but often Peter acted like one. He projected his negativity onto those around him and always assumed they thought the worst of him. He spent hours obsessing over what they thought, unable to let his mind think anything but the worst. They probably saw him as some pathetic little girl, not the man he knew he was. 

 

Peter had spent far too long in his life worrying about what others thought of him. Being a trans gay guy was somewhat like walking a tightrope act. You had to find the perfect balance between being yourself, presenting in whatever way you wanted, being your happiest, and survival. It was hard to exist as a minority, and one wrong step would metaphorically send you plummeting to the ground. Even more likely, one wrong step would result being used and abused by the cowards in his life.  

 

For Peter, trying to pass as male seemed like some twisted game the boy didn’t want to play. It was hours of perfecting outfits, training his voice to sound lower than he was comfortable speaking at and training himself to forget the mannerisms that he had lived with for years. More often than not, it was quite difficult to forget the 13 horrible years of living as a girl his body had endured. 

 

Peter was far more quiet than other boys. He took up less space both physically and emotionally. His opinion was never the loudest in the room. Some of his behavior could be attributed to the traits of a person severely abused. Hiding in small places when he was scared, shying away from adult men, flinching at the slightest touch or sound- they were all textbook characteristics of abused children. 

 

But some of the lighter traits, the quiet tone and perhaps the boy’s hesitance to take up space, were side effects of being raised as female. In this day and age, girls were always taught to take up less space and make their voices rarely heard. Man or not, a young trans guy like Peter was no exception to the societal tax of these roles and of being raised as a little girl. The boy hated them with a passion, but trying to look at the bright side in the situation taught him to be thankful for learning the female burden. 

 

Peter shifted in the small space. He pulled his wrist closer to his body, cradling it close to his chest. He sat with his knees up to his chest, his back flush against the wall and his head tipped forward, buried in his knees. He cradled himself into the corner of the closet, a little nook of the mostly barren space. He was trying to feel smaller in the already incredibly small room, because some naive part of him thought that if he seemed smaller he might not be seen at all.

 

Peter’s head swiftly snapped upwards as a loud bang reverberated the entire closet. Another bang followed the first rapidly, loud and raucous. Bang after bang after bang were delivered to the closet door.    

 

Peter’s stuffed the fingers of his left hand into his mouth. Sucking profusely on the digits, occasionally biting down on the skinny fingers. He sucked and sucked and sucked and bit and bit and bit until his fingers felt stiff and little irony pools of blood dripped down his lip and onto his chin. 

 

**Bang. Bang. Bang.** The door shook under the pressure.

 

“See what did I tell you two,” 

 

**Bang. Bang. Bang.**

 

Mason’s voice sounded like a bloody thorn. “I’m honestly worried about **him** too,” The man spat the pronoun out like it was acid on his tongue, “When I heard he didn’t make it to school today, I was so worried for Peter. He’s like a son to me now that poor May has passed and I’m not some maniac that would lock him in the closet or something sick like that. I’m honestly offended you would think that Stark. I trust you to watch the boy all the time, that is a  **privilege** I give you out of the kindness of my own heart and you repay me like this. I don’t deserve this bullshit, especially not from someone I could ban from seeing the boy in a single second if I wanted to.”

 

Peter whimpered loudly when he heard the word ‘Stark’. But as if Mason was expecting it, a loud bang covered the sound almost immediately, smothering the sound waves before they could be heard. Peter wanted to cry out at the moment. Scream so fucking loud that Mr. Stark would hear and come busting into the closet to save him from this hell. 

 

However, the only sound he could manage was another small whimper (the sound even more muffled by the fingers still stuffed into his mouth). Peter knew that if he removed the fingers from his mouth, perhaps the sounds would be louder and Mr. Stark might hear him. But the fingers were too comforting and his brain felt too fuzzy. He felt like he was floating away from this world and his fingers were the only anchor he had to reality. 

 

The boy curled his right arm around his knees tightly, still leaving the left one propped up on his knee and fingers firmly in his mouth. He squinted his eyes closed, focusing for a fleeting few seconds on the darkness. The boy than rapidly blinked his dark eyes over and over and over again. The varying shades of darkness created a stormy, almost strobe light effect. It was a welcome distraction from the wimpers trying to escape the boy’s lips. And for a second, Peter hoped it would be enough to keep him distracted. Enough to keep him away from the grasp of the fuzziness. 

 

The boy bit down harshly on the fingers, letting more blood pool in his mouth and drip down his chin. He knew that hurting himself was never a good idea. But hurting himself always helped him feel more grounded. And maybe if he tried hard enough to feel grounded, he could fight the fuzziness. Maybe he could save himself before he fell into the all too familiar feelings of his mind being far younger than his body. 

 

He knew that in some ways, the fuzziness was better. It made him feel better at least, when he felt fuzzy he also felt small and warm and protected. He felt like he didn’t have a care in the world, like he could do anything with no repercussions. The fuzziness always came with a sense of bliss, of simply not caring.  

 

However, the fuzziness made him far more vulnerable than the normal Peter Parker. It made clingy and act with a childlike dependency on those around him. The fuzziness made him feel out of control. When his mind was fuzzy, tears came more easily and every sense felt heightened. He barely had basic control over his bodily function when his mind was fuzzy, easily wetting his pants like a stupid little baby when he was frightened of the smallest things or nervous or in a new situation or simply scared and wanting a warm hug or a soft stuffed animal to cuddle or his fingers in his mouth.     

 

Peter could feel the fuzziness creeping up on him, like a shadow peering over his shoulder. The boy curled further into himself, shutting his eyes firmly because the dark seemed to be hiding monsters. He was terrified of being here. He wanted to leave. Leave. Leave. He wanted to leave. He wanted Bucky Bear and real bucky and he really wanted Mr. Stark. He wanted Mr. Stark. He wanted Mr. Stark. 

 

At that moment in time, it was as if the floodgates broke down and the fuzziness came tearing into his mind. Peter felt ripped away from his body, he felt more scared than he ever had and the fingers in his mouth were doing nothing to help. Why were they doing nothing to help? They always helped. Always helped. Always helped. Why weren’t they helping anymore? He needed them to help.

 

The boy pulled the fingers from his mouth with a small, wet pop. He let the tears came pooling at the corner of his eyes roll in big, fat drops down his face. The boy was shaking like a leave, sobs wracked through his entire body. He felt out of control. He felt helpless. Helpless. Helpless. Helpless. 

 

He wanted to cuddle Bucky Bear right now. He wanted to leave. He didn’t want to be locked in the scary dark closet. He wanted a hug and love. Love. Love. Love.

 

“Did you hear that?” A new voice started speaking on the other side of the door. It was gruff yet soothing, the brooklyn accent thick and concerned. However Mason started banging loudly on the door again. 

 

Hearing the voice, Peter’s sobs became louder. Whenever he tried to speak, the words felt like lead in his mouth. He couldn't figure out how to get the right words out, so he instead sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. He was simultaneously trying to make as much noise as possible, desperately trying to gain the man’s attention, and simply get out his pent up emotions. He wasn’t quite sure why, but the only thing the boy felt capable of was crying. 

 

On the other side of the door, a metal arm darted out and caught Mason’s wrist before he could bang on the door again. The menacing man got with in an inch of Mason and seethed, “I said did you hear that, because I think I just heard somebody crying on the other side of this door.”

 

With that, Bucky bodily threw Mason across the room as if he weighed nothing. The man crashed into Peter’s bed frame. His head connected with the wood with a sickening crack. It then slid down, his forehead connected with the rumpled sheets stained with white and red smears. The man’s eyes were closed and he seemed to be unconscious. However, his chest rose up and down with the telltale signs of life. 

 

Tony let out a low, sarcastic ‘ow’. Rolling his eyes and barring his teeth at the man, but Bucky simply pushed him and moved to look at the closet. The man then pulled on the locked doorknob with so much force, that the door simply popped off of the hinges. 

 

Light streamed into the closet and the boy blinked rapidly trying to adjust to the light he had been deprived off for so long. Through the globs of tears in his eyes, Peter could make out a large, muscular man leaning down in front of him. A shorter man was hovering slightly behind him. At first, he was staring at Peter like he had two heads. But within seconds, the confusion flashed to love and he rushed forward to kneel on the floor next to Bucky. 

 

Peter’s brain was too fuzzy to process what was truly happening, why Mr. Stark had been looking at him with confusion. A part of his brain was nagging him, reminding him that he was naked. That Mr. Stark was seeing him naked and that his little secret was now out of the bag in the most mortifying way imaginable. He wasn’t going to get to come out to his mentor on his own terms and when he felt comfortable. Mason had officially ripped that opportunity away from him and he was stuck feeling like a little trans freak in front of the man he most looked up to, admired and loved most in the world. 

 

However, the fuzzy part of his brain won out and all Peter wanted was love. He sloppily surged forward in the small space, barreling himself into the men. His limbs were heavy and uncoordinated as he messily wrapped them around the two men’s neck’s, forcing them to fall together in a tangled heap on the floor. 

 

“Hey doll, you’re ok punk. I promise you’re ok Peter.” Bucky soothed the boy, as Tony pulled off his own sweatshirt to wrap around the boy’s skinny frame.

 

Bucky kept on repeating the sweet words over and over and over again as Peter cried. Reassuring him that he was going to be ok, he was really going to be ok. 

 

Peter still felt like his words weren’t working. He couldn’t figure out how to vocalize his feelings, how to explain what was happening. He couldn’t even remember what talking sounded like, he felt too helpless. He felt too small. 

 

“P-p-ple- … he-lp...” The boy finally stuttered out. His face turned bright red, mortified that he coudln’t make the words make sense. Why was this happening? Why was this happening? Why was this happening?

 

Mr. Stark’s hand came up to slowly pet the boy’s wavy hair. The man ran his fingers up and down soothingly, tracing little patterns into Peter’s scalp. “I promise we are going to help, we’re going to make this better kid. I am so sorry we weren’t here sooner sweetheart, we should’ve been here sooner. But, we’re here now and that scumbag is never going to touch you ever again. You are going to be happy again if it’s the last thing Bucky and I ever do. I promise you kiddo, you are going to make it through this”

 

Peter nestled his face into Mr. Stark’s side, reveling in the familiar scents of motor oil and expensive cologne. Knowing that something was missing, the boy made grabby hands towards Bucky. The man gave a throaty chuckle, but complied with the boy’s demands. 

 

“I’m only cuddling with Stark cause I love you punk,” The man lightly teased, curling up to Peter on his other side. “Anything for you punk… anything.”

 

For the first time in a while, Peter’s smile reached his eyes. His wrist was still throbbing, his eyes strained and his stomach demanding food. But in this moment, the boy still felt happier than he had in what felt like forever. He was surrounded by people who loved him, the fuzziness felt like a welcome escape for a change, Mason lay knocked out on the bed and he was truly going to be happy once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I deserve a hug, hot coco and a nice review - please and thank you


	12. Safe Sadness, Snuggling Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up, self deprecates and cuddles with people who love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning for some dark thoughts and mega self hate.

When Peter woke up for the first time, the boy felt as if his entire body had been wrapped in one giant hug. He was laying in the the middle of a large bed, made out out of sleek hardwood and covered in soft grey fabric sheets and comforters, his head propped up on a pillow that felt like a cloud. 

 

The boy felt like he was floating. Fuzziness ebbed at the front of his mind like an old friend, inviting him to let go and just feel small. Forget his anxiety and let other people deal with the problems. 

 

A single finger was hooked around his nose and his thumb sat limply on his tongue. At first the boy wanted to spit it out in disgust, but after a second he took a tentative suck. It was a familiar, relaxing sensation and within a few minutes the boy was feverishly sucking the digit. It made him feel like a stupid baby, but his brain was too fuzzy for the regular parade of self hatred and depressing thoughts to flow into his mind. He was so tired. He was too tired. He was too tired. 

 

Sitting on his chest, right under the disgusting curve of his breast covered by a large t-shirt, Bucky Bear’s soft fur pressed against him- pinned under one the arm leading to his mouth. Clint’s blankie was tucked under his chin and Peter couldn’t help but smile around his thumb, gleefully rubbing the texture against his face. Clint liked to prank people a lot, but he was also one the sweetest people he had ever met. He always shared his special things with Peter when he knew the boy needed a little extra love. 

 

Peter rolled over wanting to squish his chest, mash his breasts into the mattress and forget about them entirely. They truly did make him to sad to think about. They made him feel like a girl and he wasn’t a girl. He wasn’t a girl. He wasn’t a girl.  But the moment he rolled over his torso shot up from the bed like he had been electrocuted. He had collided with a large body and before his very eyes could focus on the long hair and dark features, Peter had sworn it was Mason. His heart hammered, as his brain told him to run away from the man, But his body did not listen, because subconsciously he knew who the man was and Peter was not afraid of him. He couldn’t be afraid of him. He wouldn’t let himself lose anything else.   

 

“Hey punk,” Bucky’s voice was low and rumbling as he fought the sleep away. His hand reached out to smooth Peter’s hair down as he continued speaking.. “What’s wrong doll?” 

 

Another voice joined Bucky’s from the other side of the bed, startling Peter even more. His mind was screaming at him to get out, that being in bed with two men was a bad idea. But Mr. Stark’s voice was as familiar as an old CD, so Peter stayed put right where he was. He listened to the man speaking calmly and focused on the way the familiar voice formed his words.  “What’s wrong sweetheart? I promise you can tell Bucky and I what is wrong and we will listen to you and try our hardest help. We want to help you Peter…but I’m not sure what you remember and need you to tell me what is wrong” 

 

Mr. Stark shifted to be closer to the boy, effectively making him even more squished between the two men; but Peter didn’t mind the physical contact at this point. The pads of his fingers ran through Peter’s hair and the boy leaned into the touch. It made him feel happy and it made him feel safe. 

 

He really did want to speak. Explain that he was confused as all heck and terribly scared and unsure of what was happening in this moment. He wanted to yell about Mason hurting him and how he could still his penis inside him even tho he knew Mason wasn’t here. He wanted to talk about how his breasts made him want to scream and take a saw to his own chest. He wanted to talk about missing Aunt May and about the fact that his own death still snuck into his thoughts even at this moment. How he could never let go off his own depression and helplessness. He felt like he was drowning or falling and falling and falling into the darkest pits of the unknown. And if he finally landed in the darkness, he was unsure if he could ever return from that pit of sadness. (if he killed himself, Peter would never ever come back.)

 

The boy wanted to push the two men away. He wanted to explain that this was all his fault. Mason hurt him because he deserved it. They shouldn’t attempt to help him. He was worthless and didn’t deserve the time of day, nonetheless the love and affection of two men who had way more important things to do than love a stupid kid like him. He wanted to go crawl in a hole and cry. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve this. He didn't deserve this.They shouldn’t love him. He was unlovable. Unlovable. Unlovable.  

 

The  longer he tried to form words however, the more confused he became and the less he felt able to communicate. He babbling slightly, his mouth forming syllables and not words.

 

As he waited longer, his mind became fuzzier and fuzzier until he couldn’t focus on anything but the feeling of Mr. Stark’s hand in his hair and the scent of Bucky and Tony mixing together around him. It was safe and comforting and the boy closed his eyes, only focusing on the scents that smelled like home. 

 

Peter pulled Bucky Bear and the blankie closer to his face. He rubbed the soft fabric on his skin. He loved the way the texture felt warm and smooth and soft all at the same time. The way it the fabrics would mat when little drops of spit or the occasional tear rolling down his face would land on it. Peter loved soft things, they made him feel protected.These were the first comforting items the boy had touched since the closet. Since he was locked away in the darkness and left to only  feel the cool floor against his naked skin. 

 

The boy sucked harder on his thumb, counting the amount of times he would suck methodically until he felt almost sedated with how calm he was. He let his eyelids droop to be almost closed as he pushed his body backwards into Mr. Stark’s own form, snuggling his back against the man’s front. 

 

Bucky sighed, leaning forward and wrapping Peter’s front side in his arms. The boy struggled at first, terrified off letting Bucky feel his breasts pressed against him. But after he realized Bucky wasn't going to relent, he simply shoved Clint’s blankie in the space between their torsos to cushion the feeling. He hated his body, but he also wanted love from Bucky. He would compromise with himself if it meant Bucky would show him affection. 

 

Tony grunted slightly as Bucky’s arm draped around his back, but he was quickly sushed. “ Hush now Stark, let’s all just try to go to sleep again. It’s really late and someone needs their sleep.” He pressed his lips to Peter’s forehead, giving him a quick kiss. “I know you’re scared punk, but I think sleep would be best right now. 

 

And with the that, Peter let his eyes fall shut for good. Listening to the steady heartbeats of the two men he let himself drift back asleep, feeling comfortable and safe and protected against all evil in the world. As long as was in their arms and had their love and his bear and a soft bed, Peter knew he was going to be alright.  

  
  
  


The next time Peter woke up, it was chaotic. Large sobs racked his entire body and he was shaking like was soaking wet in the middle of the woods during winter. The cries were escaping from around the thumb still stuffed in his mouth and he couldn’t breath deeply. For a second Peter was terrified, thinking that he was going to choke on his own finger. He couldn’t get a breath. He couldn't get a breath. He couldn’t get a breath.  

  
  


Bucky and Tony were both trying their hardest to comfort the distressed boy. They had pulled him out of the soaping wet bed and were holding him close to their chests and hugging him and playing with his hair and giving him sweet kisses on the forehead and whispering sweet nothings. 

 

But all Peter could focus on was the way his body shook due to both fear and the cool air against the soaking wet sweatpants clinging to his legs. And the humiliation of it all. Of crying. Wetting the bed. Feeling so utterly helpless. 

 

The dream had been about Mason and in the dark room, surrounded by shadows dancing on the walls and ceiling, he felt like the man was going to appear at any second. He was just going to show up and drag him back to Queens. Back to their apartment. Back to the closet. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t go back. no. no. no. no. no. He couldn’t go back. 

 

Peter was crumpled in a tangle of limbs on the floor now, his body having collapsed into the lump when he no longer had energy to support himself upright. His entire body was shaking and shivering both from the cool air on his wet legs and  the panic coursing through his veins. 

 

He felt so disconnected from the moment. As if he was swinging upside from the ceiling, watching himself have the anxiety attack. He watched Tony sit cross legged in front of the boy, keeping his hands raised in the air so Peter could see them. He watched Bucky swiftly walk into the ensuite bathroom and then across the room towards the closet; the man returned with a bowl of steaming water and large, comfy looking clothing.

 

He watched and watched and watched, until finally the boy’s mind seemed to know that it was time to return to itself. Expect in a strange sense, Peter truly had no idea how to feel connected to his body once again. He felt like he was lost in outer space, floating aimlessly in orbit and unable to return to earth. He felt like he would never make it back to his body or own sense of existence.   

 

Still feeling fuzzy, the boy tried to suck harder on his thumb. He tried to focus only on the methodic pattern of the sucking, the sensation of the weight on his tongue and how safe and small and protected it made him feel.

  
  


But when that did not work and the feelings of panic and fear tried to consume him once more, Peter went to claw at his wrist with his nails. He needed pain. He needed pain. He needed pain. He needed to feel the release. He needed to feel grounded and he needed to feel like he was living in the moment again. But before he could feel the sweet release of pain, a hand caught his wrist and held on tight.  

 

“We’re not doing that right now Peter.” Mr. Stark’s voice was firm, leaving no room for the boy to protest. But Peter still struggled against the grasp, wanting desperately to feel the pain he so desperately craved. He couldn’t handle this without the pain. He needed the pain. He needed to feel less like he was floating. 

 

“I said, we’re not doing that now Peter. There are lots of things I would be happy to let you do right now and will help you do, but hurting yourself is not one of them. I know you are terrified right now, but you can make it through this without hurting yourself. I promise it is going to be ok, you just have to trust me” 

 

The boy wanted scream. He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream. But he couldn’t scream, because he knew Mr. Stark wanted what was best. He knew the man was trying his hardest to help. He sometimes felt like Mr. Stark was the only one who cared or helped. He had been there for Peter through so much, and he never left. Not even when Peter was a dumb baby and sucked his thumb or wet the bed. 

 

The boy was babbling now. The words were slurred from the thumb that was still stuffed in his mouth. He was trying to get his point across in anyway possible. But when he realized he would have to take the thumb out of his mouth to speak and chase the fuzziness from his mind, Peter slowly started to relent. He felt the pad of Mr. Stark’s thumb against his pulse point on his wrist and focused on every time his heart would beat, every reminder that he was in fact alive (regardless of all he had been through in the last few days). 

 

When the older man sensed Peter had calmed down to an extent, he started talking once again in a firm, yet sweet tone. “Now here’s what’s gonna happen, kiddo. It’s roughly 9:30 in the morning, but I think it would be best if you got a little more sleep.” he paused before adding, “ or maybe some food first because you look like a walking skeleton Petey-pie and it’s honestly scaring me. And then we can do more sleeping. We’re going to get you all cleaned up out of these yucky clothing and then cosy in some nice clean pajamas.” 

 

Peter hummed happily around the thumb in his mouth at the thought of clean pjs. He felt gross in his stupid wet sweatpants and wanted to feel clean and happy again. But his happy hum, quickly turned to him shaking his head frantically. Sleeping meant dreaming. And dreaming meant Mason. He was not ready to see the man again. He could not face Mason. No. No. No. He could not sleep. Sleep was bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. 

 

And with that, Peter could help it anymore. With a wet pop, he pulled his thumb from from his mouth and started talking. His voice cracked from disuse, but Peter pushed forward, needing to get his words out. “I-I-I, don’t-t-t-t  understand wha-wha-t is going on, wh-wh-what happened to M-M-M-ason?” The question came out stuttered and broken and the boy shoved his thumb back into his mouth, a signal that he would longer be speaking. 

 

Tony shudered, pressing harder into Peter’s pulse point to remind himself that the boy he loved dearly was alive. That he was going to make it out ok in the end even after he had been dragged through hell and back. The man however sighed with relief, when Bucky plopped down next to them with the bowl of water and change of clothing. 

 

“Hey doll,” Bucky reached out to the bed and pulled Clint’s blankie and Bucky Bear onto the floor. Pressing them into the crook of Peter’s arm, where his elbow was bent and his lead up to his open mouth, Bucky continued talking tentative. “Right now you’re here with us punk, and Mason can not get to you” Long strands of brown hair fell into his face, as he tipped his head down to hide the murderous gleam in his eyes. “Our main priority is getting you cleaned up and cuddled into bed in new pjs and cuddled up with Bucky Bear and Clint’s stolen blanket…” He paused, looking up and winking at Peter. “And yes scrap, I know you stole the blanket. There is no way a purple blanket, covered in birds didn’t originally belong to  Barton.”

 

Peter chuckled at that and then popped the thumb out of his mouth to ask one more question. This time his words were smoother and a tiny bit of Peter’s innocence slipped into his small voice. “I-I-I feel so gross right now, c-c-can I please wear a binder?” he angrily slammed his hand into his chest, smacking his breast a single time before Tony’s other hand shot out to keep him from hurting himself.   

 

Mr. Stark now had the pads of his fingers over the pulse points in both of the boy’s wrists and he counted the 15 heartbeats before he spoke, “I don’t think that’s a good idea kiddo, you have a 3 broken ribs and your body is generally really beat up. As we get more food into you, your healing should work faster and faster, but for now you havet to heal the old fashioned way.” The man paused, as if unsure whether to add the next part of the sentence. “I want to talk more about this when you’re not feeling so hurt and well regressed,” Peter scrunched his nose at the word, still unsure of what it truly meant. “But I promise you that chest or no chest, I love you kid. I couldn’t care less that you are trans and I know you probably feel really really uncomfortable in your body and I can’t start to imagine how that feels, but I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me. I love you like a son and I would support you even if you were born with bright green stripes and a tail. I’m sticking around regardless and don’t care about some stupid fat lumps on your chest. I just care about what’s on your mind and that huge heart of yours Peter. I care about listening to your nerdy rants about star wars or how you did on your test or take you out for your favorite burgers and milkshakes. I want you to be happy kid and I promise that I only care about the things that make you happy. And the parts of you that make you who you are and I promise that your sex assigned at birth certainly isn't one of those things. Your sex assigned at birth does not affect how I view you. You are a boy, end of sentence.”

 

Peter couldn’t help but grin at the words coming out of the mans mouth. He still felt insecure beyond belief, as if Mr. Stark discovering his sex assigned at birth had been a knife in his side. But at the same time, he had never felt closer to the man. He had also never felt so much genuine support in his life. It made him feel like he was flying, like nothing could ever bring him down from the high of the emotions he was feeling. Mr. Stark loved him and even if Peter hated himself, and god he hated himself, Mr. Stark would still love him.  

 

“Now scrap,” Bucky drawled, drawing his attention away from the warm feekings and the grin he was sending Mr. Stark. The man dipped the washcloth into the bowl of warm water, wringing it out to make sure it wasn’t soaking wet. He used his other hand to drum his fingers against the itchy, wet fabric of Peter’s pants and occasionally, comforting rub little circles. “Can you wiggle out of those wet pants sweetheart and let me help you clean off and get into some comfier new ones?” He asked, still rubbing his fingers on the wet fabric for a second before Peter started to move. 

 

Wanting nothing more than to be clean again, Peter lifted his butt several inches off of the ground and scooted his pants and boxers down his legs. He let them land in a heavy, wet heap on the floor hardwood floor, little trails of urine ran every which way Peter’s face turned bright red. He hated feeling like he had no control over his bladder. It made him stupid and helpless and little.  

 

Peter shivered as cool air rushed over his wet skin and the boy automatically reached to cover up his exposed genitals. Regardless of the sweet words Mr. Stark had shared with him, Peter still wasn’t ready to share his disgusting femininity with the man. He wanted Mr. Stark to view him as male and logically he knew this wouldn't;’t change anything- but it still made him want to scream out when he was exposed. He needed to be seen as male. It was a necessity. He couldn't deal with Mr. Stark seeing him in any other way. He felt like it was ruining his perfect male image. 

 

But before he could cover himself or do something even more drastic like bolting out of the room or hiding, Bucky had already swiped the warm washcloth across his skin. He quickly washed off the sticky urine off, making the skin boy’s skin clean from the substance. He then dried the skin off with the other half of the washcloth, that the man had left dry for this very purpose.

 

When his legs and genitals were clean and no risk of a rash was possible anymore, Bucky helped the boy stand up on his shakey feet. He had the boy left his legs and slid a pair of snug, sunny yellow boxer briefs up his legs. The waistband snapped into place around his waist, making Peter feel relieved to be covered once again and then Bucky helped the boy step into a long pair of red and gold Iron Man sweatpants. They were way too long for the boy, so the man crouched down and rolled up the hem nearly 5 times until the fabric bunched around his skinny ankles. 

 

Standing there, Peter finally felt comfortable and happy again for the first time in the longest time. His finger was hooked around his nose and his thumb was planted firmly in his mouth. Bucky Bear was slumped over his shoulder, the furry paws landing on his upper back, and Clint’s blankie hit the floor near his feet. And most importantly, he could feel the sunshine seeping in from the window. He could tell that it was the morning  of a new day, the first morning in what felt like forever that he did not wake up in a closet or with his face pressed into Mason’s hairy chest, or the man forcing himself into Peter’s mouth or the boy’s vagina 

 

His body hurt, every muscle ached and his ribs throbbed. ,But in a strange sense, he felt better than he ever had. He was was Mr. Stark and Bucky, two people who cared about him more than anyone else. He had his bear and a soft blanket and the ability to take a deep breath in without worrying that it would wake his abuser. 

 

He knew that these feelings would not last for long. That he would eventually have to deal with Mason and the fuzziness and the feelings of unease and death that never seemed to leave him. But for now, he simply focused on the men with him. On the way the soft sheets felt as Bucky helped him lay back down. On the creamy tomato soup and little bites of sandwich Mr. Stark hand fed him. On the soft sounds of a children’s animation film playing on the large tv across from the bed. On the way Mr. Stark and Bucky’s bodies mushed his between theirs and they way their hearts all seemed to beat in synch. And most importantly, he focused on the sunshine. On the way it creeped over his skin and made him feel warm. Peter loved the sunshine, because it reminded him that he was alive. He hadn’t seen it in the longest time and today on this day, he swore that every day would be a sunshine day. He would never go another day without the sun. He couldn’t go on without. Like a plant, he needed the sun to grow. To survive. And Peter was determined to survive. He needed to survive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhh I am so sorry this took so long. I had like seven million family emergencies and just shit going down. And I know that this is the worst chapter to come back to because it's like filler, but I have half of the next chapter written and they finally talk about regression and Mason and all that yucky stuff. 
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you think! Feedback is really really really appreciated :D


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